I come to
[from a coma break]
And you are up counting little explosions
[that broke my head back then].
All this mist
All this mutter
I won’t know the gifts you dreamed you gave me
[So half this heart
Has all the fun]
In the morning, you are still and I am crowbarring
[with the spare of my mentality]
Into the hot engine steam of your midnight expenditure.
Once in, I see
You tidying your nightfalls
[and my steam is molecular bounce]
Years later, when I think of this moment
I’ll say
The pain you woke to was not the urgent argument you contended.
You had not
Set up the crosses appropriately.
And that I could have stood another
Takedown of your raw twirl.
[that time you were my Orpheus, and I the suffering-to-be-saved Eurydice]
I should have
Never invited you in; though how would
I have a record of every little thing that breaks
And bursts, then.
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