Often I spoke just to hear
your voice returned to me, a living
wall, a stop, the rest, the dead-end down
the block “and then
the lights went.” Out on
the roof we’re eye-level with
dry leaves wind hustles, some flaking off
a present tense like brittle
plaster hardening all along the contours
of a dead man’s face, we pass the time away
inventing little motives for a squirrel
hesitating when limbs cross
streetlights let fall skirts of
rust-colored gauze where someone’s walking
back from work, soft humming carries
from the next life
over. It’s possible to feel from here
how far apart (“What are you
thinking now”) (shut up, shut up wherever) we are so
often I speak just to keep
myself there. To hear my voice worn
by a sturdy body alien
to me, like stealing one’s way down
an unlit hall with one palm on the homely
pockmarked finish of the stucco
hidden from such incandescent need
not to have done and not to have
nights, I read my mind
free of itself, I mean
asleep. I mean broke into lives I didn’t own
knowing of them only
what could be perceived through
narrow apertures the syntax pried,
the voicemail called that space alive
you’ve reached
some arid unremitted tract
Earth wouldn’t stow the
breeze couldn’t tow (and aren’t
the leaves just busy wallpaper
slapped up over the view
of others arguing?) “Are you
ready to go inside?” It felt like drifting
off against a window on the dark bus, waking
there was nothing
to my hand but a distant sting. (“Oh
not really about anything”) Often I
just to lull thought lay
my cheek down on the cool pause
of the bathroom tile
waiting for the day to
break sense in
to make sense echo off
numb silence, were you near
I’d press my ear against the wall
that is your living back
and farther back
behind the warm slab
breath leans into, trying
to dislodge, would think I
hear.