Let her down (a song) ...

I buzz in to drive a pup uptown;

A man comes to drop off his dead hound (

Eyes closed, with blood rollin' off her lips).

Wife follows, sunk-eyed, behind him,

Hoping that her hand can unwind him (but

All he can feel is the truth on his fingertips).

I jump over their line of red splashes –

A black bag zips; a kennel unlatches –

And here's little Petey by his paws hanging onto me.

I nod: the man's half-a-step farther from

Broken – his pale wife's taking it harder.

I hope they can feel this Sunday morning breeze

           As I set him down (easy, child),

           And into a seat that he's never sniffed before.

           I let him whine (soon he'll find the scent

           Of my gum, of the sun, of the window's rushing roar).

I drop him off at the local adoption

“Keeping you with me was never an option.”

She sneaks up behind, about twenty minutes late.

“So sorry, a car hit me, had to – ”

“Don't worry about it, I'm really just glad you – ”

She glows in the sun while her green eyes gawk (worth the wait).

We dance in the woods. She puts on her shoes and –

taking a moment, the ground becomes loose sand –

I ask: “Just to be clear, what's you-and-me?”

She says, “Well, I'm sort of seeing someone,”

Standing so close beside (he must be a deaf-dumb one).

“Just friends for now, then,” I squeeze her (the fool is me).

                      [Instru.]

And I suppose the question becomes – right? –

in the end, when you'd rather feel sunlight,

Is it wasteful to loiter in the cool, fluorescent gloom?

I think so: as her core leaves your fingers,

let loose from the weight (so that no shadow lingers)

And hop in your car with the sweet morning breeze: make some room.

           Just set her down (easy boy:

           Not that ends are deaths or farewell such a heavy crime,

           But when a hope become just a dream,

           That end – while it rests in your hands – is the world for a time).

Hope's replacement II ...

Everything grows cold at a distance:

poles          from equators, babes            from parents, lovers                from arms, and this –

the ocean  (almost hot,    like tea,        at            top.  So ankles-first I plunge

off the slope, where sands drop away, and everything

is farther and blinder, uncradled and currented,

more work than play)

from the light.

What's warm is wide,

but thin   :     pull down

from that tangent

surface and

the day

might

as

w

e

l

l

h

a

v

e

n ever been.