That’s us. Let in the August storm. Let

blow open the windows. Let pulse wind

bring about a typhoon of wicked actions.

Call the tempest by its secret name.

Name that envelopes the mountains

where time goes to sleep. We celebrate

another birthday in the dark. You don’t

want to be there. You are there. You

remember a poem born from flame.

I recite it backwards and close my

eyes. Caught in a breeze heavy

with smoke.

forget the surf still damping

our shoes. forget the soft curve

of drowning eyes. drink the

seaside road, drink the dusk and

follow chains in the sky. or

instinctive memory of solar flare,

of careless sight. for sun. for

afternoon fog as humid breath

puddles the road, walking with

us in a worry and tied in loose

knots. under drowning moons.

the final pages turned, umber

words, out-of-fashion howls.

forget the concept of names,

the naming of objects requiring

names, the objects themselves.

Less than the other, we spread.

Has in the saddle, heart on a future destiny.

Out/into fine voices

and turnaround, catch sun,

finger and discard.

When is time

on the edge, then clocks fall

towards yellow.

And light is gone, is never was a

mysterious lion, she

devours the days. Her countdown in a celebration

of night. Call and call and call again

names that

light the way with lilies

and dream of aliens

in jelly jars.

this way, silent as postcard

landscapes. find us at rest on roots. count

hours until run out of fingers.

to dance in dim hallways.

to sex on rooftops, one hundred

faces invert. wait

for the bus. travel on. move along on.

tumble away, little tumbleweed.

the bus is good and mighty.

she is wheels on fire, reflecting beautiful sunsets

in wavered temple light.

she rides us away to the tunnel between

heaven and hell.

stand on the seats,

bent at the knees.

our smiles that not a soul

will ever understand.

Our favorite

brothers? Carry their

minutes up and over.

Run past the

bishop’s hill. Blind as photons.

Or remember

butterflies in a box, but

the box isn’t real,

so.

So stand to tell

the day go to hell.

Gather underground

while clocks lose track of time.

How the day

wills us nothing but

vacated promises. So the

accident of cold

pulse. So the need

to have wings instead

of arms, an ageless

fiction inspired by hospital

dreams

when Venus descends.

my hand. your hand. taken as the

the curtains swell. taken as moonlight

leaves tracks on the wall. as we

wade in twilight dreams. and if we

meet the matriarch of evening clouds.

and her robes of soft gray. and her

eyes lost to shadow. and whether

she puts us in a satin purse or sends

us off to a secret heaven. whether

we swallow angels like sugar pills.

whether we hold open our hands

to forgiving rain. when the gods

from years so distant as become

cool mist, when these gods fold

us back into a storybook. when

our breath becomes scented

steam. when the world turns itself

inside-out. when we are launched

into dawn, there to hang at the

apex of a perfect arc.

There are nuns.

There are no nuns.

We send them away.

Send away the priest,

send away the choir,

send away an invisible

angel.

We are the beloved.

We send away love.

One of us hungers.

One of us goes

blind from grief.

One of us steals from

the poorbox.

Share coins.

Share guilt.

Put two coins on a

dead woman’s

eyes.

She lies in her coffin.

She lies by the altar.

Did we know

her name?

in this time just

after     after we finish

the meal     the

moment when

the waitress stands

with our check     smiles

as waitresses

smile     distant

in a way that’s

heavy     she’s    

worked here for years      the

restaurant we’ve

driven by without

stopping     driven by

while going

to the harbor for an

evening boat

ride     old-style

paddlewheel tracing

the lakeshore     where

we met    brought

together by

chance at the

railing     leaning

into a black breeze     the

paddlewheel passed

a restaurant set back

from the shore     the

same restaurant where

we’ve just had

dinner     a pleasant

meal     a meal

eaten to music whispering

from speakers hidden

in the ceiling

tiles     music

that isn’t really

music     music created

specifically for

restaurants     for

supermarkets     for

department stores     music

nobody actually

listens to     notes

vaguely simulating

music     how nice

it would be if this

restaurant had real

music     if it had a dance

floor and I asked

you to dance     if we got

caught up by an

internal rhythm     caught up

to move into

one another     move

as word follows

word to form a perfect

sentence     even

though     even

though     though when

was the last time we

danced     could it

truly be at our

wedding     could it

be more than thirty

years ago     decades

gone by and

no time since     not

at any other

wedding     wedding

of a friend     of the child

of a friend     and

wow     and wow     and

how can that

be     how

can that be our

only dance    a dance

not of now     the now

of imitation music

and the waitress with

our check     smiling

and resting on her

feet     breathe

in     breathe out     breathe

and smile     a nice

young woman     still

smiling as she

leaves     as she

gives us time

to prepare

a credit card and

decide on the amount

of a tip     leaves through

the doors that separate

the dining area from

the kitchen     leaves

to do whatever

it is that

waitresses do when

there aren’t any

tables needing

service     when I almost

say to you how much she

reminds me of

Jenny     Jenny named

after your aunt     Jenny

the music lover     real

music     Jenny the

singer     Jenny the

guitar player     who

drove away one

morning     who took the

car keys from the

hook by the front

door     the hook I

installed so we’d

always know where

to find the

keys     the morning

when I made pancakes

for breakfast     the

morning before Jenny

would have gone back to

college     pancakes

and we’d run out

of syrup      I’ll go get

some     what Jenny

said     taking the keys

from the hook     the

keys rattling

softly     wrapping her

hair in the scarf

you made for

Christmas     driving

off but not driving

back again     and the

waitress     who has the

same kind of

hair     long and dark

and straight     and

I come this close to

saying how the

waitress and Jenny

could be twins     in that

moment     that

moment when

you can tell the

words I almost

say     that

moment when the

notes of an

imitation song

touch our hearts

with tiny claws

Until strain the salted year? Freshly

drawn in smoke, blown by wind to who

knows where. Their distant retreat, nights

of twisted roots, the doors all closed, the

hours run aground, gone lame and lost in

soft penitence. Not today. Not by a cemetery

or under the shadows of buddha’s walled

city. No sorrow in becoming forgetful,

no matter what. Call up the dreams of

polished stones and bubbles frozen in time.

At the end of the world a blind dog climbs

ten rugged hills and jumps into the sun. Lost

and found. Never was, or will be. Because

her howl, a prayer? Or good good night

at long long last. Between the sweaty

hallucinations of lambent children,

whatever were their precious names.

Gone headlong into mist while we

speak with the voice of birds.

unlock the door to morning     caught

in emphysemic breath     remember horses

from a dream     lit up by radium     waiting for their master’s

blessing before carrying us into soft-edged

mist     remember a distant arroyo and spinning our heels in

marionette fashion     reaching for a hammer to fracture Galileo’s

sacred nebulae     pushing out from the place we promised

never to mention again     where there are no more

days     good or bad      where we draw and

redraw lightning bolts in the air

with bones