I Knew You Were A Good Animal

when I met you—
but the day

has gotten long.
I think about leaving

you. I do. I
regret it,

& I don’t.
It depends.

Of course,
it’s always something

that depends.
A dove

caught in
the lake’s lace

& rioting against
the wave-white.

I don’t know where
you hands went,

I can’t
hear them.

I’ve lost them
in the crowd.

It is not so much that I need you
back as I need to

remember I still can
desire. I keep

solo, so low
to the ground

it becomes
a roof.

I knew you were
a good animal

when gull-flocks
fell like seeds

beside you,
Lake Michigan

roiling black, tucked
into an elbow.

As tempting as it
is to call a name

into the bludgeoned air,
don’t.

I wish I could
find a home in you,

I wish you would
take yourself home.

The Light Appears, It Disappears, It Passes

I saw a bridge become an arm,
gesturing. I saw a foal
fold back inside its mother. I saw
the warehouse where they store streets
after cars pass through them.
I saw an art exhibit
of four mirrors—gray paint
over glass. We arrive
at our reflections as the art.
$10 admission fee. I saw
a painting full of red,
flecked with careful light,
Sadak at the mountain-tilt,
clung to each bone-flinch, each
stone. I saw the white blades
through the windowblinds,
illuminating the skin
in digestive patches. I saw
the moon-lacquered floor open
like a jar. I saw the snake of leather
drop flaccid from between the legs.
I saw the shirt pull itself off the arms.
I saw the absence refuse tautology,
it is not always the same.
I saw my heart fill with smoke.
I saw a woman pull her love
from her chest, smoke-ropes
collapsed in the nose.
I saw the light become
a burgundy glow behind
the road, moving as the slowest
pendulum. Time
not like a carousel but like a hill
down which we roll things.
I saw a day, & then another,
& then another. How is the lake
veiled in dew already?
If I had asked her to marry me,
it would’ve meant nothing.
I am full of too much anger,
too much sad careening.
Would it be enough to apologize
for having no place in the world?
—Here, touch everything.
The softened butter-sun
milked of its pageantry,
light lapsed at desirable angles,
sculptures with eyes like St. Lucy,
ridges of oil, mountain range I have desired
with desire beyond desire.
Small spread of paint
beneath your nail—take it
home with you. It is as lonely
as you could imagine a thing to be.