The Disappearing Room
At night beneath the sheet my scattered legs turn into yours. Dream’s a moth with singeing wings. Hearts are caves that flood. You boil the water to nothing, forget the pen in the drawer of spoons, nag, Where is time? When does it return? I’m sick of raking inconsolable beaches. I drive; you run the lights, almost killing me. Concerts, movies, you have to cry in public while I sit damp, red. Or, worse, you wake me: Look: the cracks conspiring with the darkness. He had to be your father drifting out. We’d jump, call him from a dune. Your father pretending not to hear. You hoarder of lost words, midwife to my empty stares. Words are socks on hands. Love’s the cypress that stands in the swamp, waving gray limb-loads of moss. No use seeking you. Walking this hall, like a ghost you walk some other. I leave you notes crammed in the margins and live for the reply from your vast, dim, disappearing room somewhere near mine: A lovely leaking ceiling is the most a life can be; soul that shanty on the sand where the Gulf sometimes comes up to spit and chew room I’ve glimpsed in dreams.