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Fog began the morning, |
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the sun ate through the gloom like a single hole punch in a piece of card. |
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No cartoon beams of light. |
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Past the townhouse, |
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straight to central station, |
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the first time you were dropped off in your brother's car. |
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I don't think it's luck that we stayed in touch. |
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Pale pink petals touch the surface of the pool |
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and the curves of the contours remind me of your absence. |
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My eyes are bleached. |
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Strip lighting sparking on and off, |
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blinking lashes suspended above. |
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The cab driver barely resembles his photograph, |
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beneath the plastic laminate and its curling edges. |
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I wonder how else the years have marked him. |
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This country, it goes on and on. |
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Certainty comes, however fleeting. |
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We spent one night in one room. |
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Put one leg underneath the other. |
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It'll fall asleep before you do. |
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You loosen the band and your hair unfolds like flames. |
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You tie the ribbon to your wrist. |
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So we stand and stare at the morning rush hour |
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in a balcony scene. |
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We were there. |
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Where was the air? |
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We were there. |
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Where was the air? |
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At toll stations we tossed cents into a plastic catching funnel |
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that looks like an upturned hockey mask. |
