You text me good morning at midnight. When I wake,
I write all the ways to tear down
the world with you, holding hands
as we walk away from the flames.
I want to say something about the emerald pools
of your eyes, the way your smile explodes
I dreamed the snakes in the grass all wanted
my autograph, but none of them had a pen.
You dreamed there were bomb-
sniffing dogs at the movie theater.
Don’t you know?
They were there for you.
You are a quiet explosion that obliterates the gray.
You deafen the noise of wasted days.
A Process Document Re: Life
No one, here, is happy with their choice
of places to die. One woman wishes
for the ocean. Another woman aches
to smell Paris. A man misses his lover’s
bed, though it’s been filled by
another. Across the street, a young
man is begging for change outside
a Starbucks. He is their best customer.
Someday, soon, he’ll be our CEO.
The ocean woman shifts in her seat,
asks if the fiscal year numbers are ready.
The breath she sighs is what beauty
warns its children about. I tell her
that every cruise, there’s a decent
chance someone’s being kept fresh
in the walk-in. It’s enough to distract
her from the report I have no intention
of finishing today. When our team
lead comes about the process document
he expected days ago, I tell him
it’s in the sewer. We pry a lid off,
together, and all of Paris hits him square
in the nose. I leave him to reminisce.
I’m wanted on a panel, upstairs, about
urinal water consumption. None of us
is willing to demonstrate, so it’s all
abstraction. I’ve prepared a slide
on ruffled bedsheets, arms gone blood-
less under sleeping heads. There
is warmth in the clean quiet,
the still air of singular existence.
All of these things are the truth and also,
of course, lies. My 2-minute talk on
roomy couches has them all in tears.
By the end of the day, it’s all smiles.
I haven’t done a thing. I don’t plan to,