There is a box beneath boxes in my closet containing
Things scratching at what I can almost remember;
Notes she wrote to make me choke (now) all remaining
Of when I took out my heart, but only to lend her.
The Book: Of Love, a thick brown cover hiding its pages—
It’s too easy to claim it’s untranslatable.
It smells like the ages, heavy with the faces
Of any and all dreamers who have felt its pull.
There is silence in miles, chopped dividing lines of lemon
Leading drivers forever toward dawn.
Fingers on a bottle, searching for a weapon,
To leave reality—for absence makes us long.
The Question: she once asked me, laughing (I think) as she said it
I’ve whispered it so many times, is it the same…?
“I need to know, life—do you intend to live it?”
How have I butchered it, in what way has it changed?
There is a notion and wish that the Thief lives only to take;
But they say a stolen car never feels the same.
So it’s the Thief who like a harsh artist creates;
Having and then losing is what we know as pain.
The Lie: time heals all wounds—promulgated by hack therapists
Who listen to your spiel; how does that make you feel?
Eyes frequently to clocks, listening to minutes tick;
You are a fish baited, hooked, out of blue you’re reeled.
There is an exit on the freeway, but always more ahead,
The appearance of choice is present everywhere.
Regardless, it’s to the same place we’re being led,
Choice, like love, is never more than a desperate prayer.
The Fact: love persists when everything else is forgotten.
Stumbling organ donors, looking for lost receipts.
What is it that makes love survive the empty cotton
Of the sheets, her lack of presence, her absent heat?