Stillness
The sky is a mottled mess of silver. Even
in California, I am expecting the snow to heave its way
from the northeast, to imagine
its arduous, low voice through the dark. In the dark, I am waiting
for the wolves to come, lying underneath
starved and forsaken stars. It’s adoration
I want. And to sing desire. To listen to songs shiver
with glory. These musicians. Their confessional
lilts. Their tongues in their throats like icings
of blood. I am jealous of their inner weathers, new
and unafraid. Every time the wind shines
above this longing world, I feel compelled to watch
the restless people roam the beach
below my window. I want
so much for love. To bite into tree trunks
whole. The fact of the matter is he and I
are always looking at the same things: sliver of moon-talk;
the dog gnawing at the corner of the couch. It should
be simple: I want bangs, so I cut my hair; I want
him, so he comes to me like a half-shined creature.
There are days when I think, yes, everything I write
is important. I want him to read this. The distance
between the two of us is formless. The pavement
below my unpainted toes hot, the wind carved
around my face still invisible. I hold him
to the afternoon, the sun flushed and living. It’s strange
to notice the sun like so. To notice his body
as though he were a dancer. He never has used
his body for work. He just lies there, sprawled open as acre.
