It’s strange now to think of you…

when the night vibrates with intangible
rhythms and I read Bolanos, Savage Detectives
to dumb down the cruelty that rattles in my bones

how we weep for each other—
only to hold the withered versions of clanging dreams
die in the sunlight
streaming through half open windows
as warm air hits a hot naked torso

and phantasms flower and burn
in raging bloodless captivity--
And today the bed is unmade and
words slip into a melancholy mood
behind closed doors and a lonely quiet apartment

there is a sound of a brown paper bag scraping against the asphalt
pushed by a warm wind that hovers for a moment
and the mewling of a restless cat pouncing on her partner
time contracts and expands like a living creature
and there are books stacked on the bedside
and mosquito-bitten flesh to douse in anti-itch spray

five hour spells of sleep and wakefulness
drinking cups of warm water that does not soothe a cold thirst
and Michael Jackson is dead--
a cut-open corpse being autopsied
and keys jangle in shallow pockets
as I walk in the dawn air looking for a deli and a bagel,


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