View from the Everything.
Forgive the mess, the cartoon villa shrunk from its bold 60s edges
and still housing the same muchness, crumple of the everyday: stacks of
letters flanking the corded phone, the last bare corner en-bookcased,
shapes carved into rooms by our tidal living. And now: your chin arcing
back, saluting ceiling; the piano keys dancing along the window frame;
the house built with sturdy until sturdy was un-so. The foundation moves
its hips to this song but settles later as things do. Forgive the
colloquialism but we've come to remember each other and
there's an inch above your collarbone, lintel of your lung, that
makes me want not to die. It reads: Let me please not go yet or ever,
may the bookmarks, all I've left unfinished tether me, keep me from
On my neighbor's mantel an ivory elephant defies the clock beside
it--every day it brandishes its trumpet in my direction, appearing in
the screened entryway as I pass then is swallowed by the frame again.
The door is open to say Look
at the tidy, the knowing gleam of polished wood floor, though it's
not an invitation. Forgive the ghosts in us who don't know their
place, and travel throat to throat. We spit them out with our
toothpaste, they hiss through the building's pipes, more music to
dance away from, dance running the whole time, watched by the
cannonballs perched on this town's every hill that itch with want
for breeze or malice. Let's flip them off and run for it, may they
barrel through our once-home and the effigies that held up our
aesthetic. Let's take the insurance money and move downhill again.
Dance; the dark curve of motion pulls like a reel, anticipating our
shape. Feel the body move against what defines it, the language that
bends to match it. A sound for every model of devastation, the dark moon
that spreads its smooth wings and coughs to chase the hollow of a name
from its mouth, to make more room for wind.