Dusk is ragged in your city, while I
write toward August, toward the shoulder
of trees between my old town
and yours. They are both imagined now,
the highway rerouted, the post office
and taverns knocked down. It might be that only
the promise is kept: the ghosts inside the outline
of the foundation, climbing the air
to their beds. I tucked you away
every Christmas, sweeping needles from the brick,
dust from the woodstove that hissed
and cracked inside. I can’t remember your voice
exactly, only the lift of it, the updraft, the sweet
strange patch of air in a cool
forest. Keeping time in your
presence was impossible. You were limitless
and distant, but others said you had a nice
voice and dressed well. Now I am more
a force of nature than a girl. I could face
your frontier,
those ghosts I know
better than I know you—they keep
their schedules, their silence, they eat
their airy bread. I sent a message
to you, stood naked and invisible, my skin
oiled with light and you were smiling
your nice smile with your eyes
closed, and I’ll tell you the next time
I arrive
inside you and how: stiff and light as
feathers, curling at your touch. What dreams
I’ve had, and so simple—you sitting
across the table, breathing
the wind that drifts past the amazed
churches—torment is so gorgeous
inside my mouth.
You are yielding and flawed, like the earth
underfoot in a Spring that is all
melt and grit. I want you to bite
my lip for me now. I’m tired of the taste
of my own blood. Between us
the trees stood once like hair on end,
but they’ve been cut down and the road
straightened this summer, tamed,
smooth, and you
know there are no excuses
anymore, and this time you’re not going
to say thank you and let go
of my hand. Through the screens the air is all
salt and mud, and this time August
means age and waiting, the water
running off my back in the shower.