It left in the wind, it returned in the air.
I opened wide my door to it.
I shuttered all the rooms to block out
sunlight. It left at midnight.
It seemed to me there were birds
in that dark. I locked all the exits—
it returned in the fissures, the errors,
the marooned sulking thoughts.
What in the meantime happened
was nothing. Requiring no company,
plummeted into its own blood-
blackness. We were careless. It left
at the green summer of dawn.
Pulled us from a dream—no one
heard it. It gave every reason,
declared itself broken, gathered into
a cracked leather satchel its alarm clock
and books. I have come to tell you
there are no new stars. If you tense
against me there is history—I open
my body to it. Everyone at times
gets too close. But when I backed
into that delirium, unearthed
its warm flesh—it left. It left
with the heat from the stones and even
the dusk felt oppressive.
But when I rooted into your chest
and slept in a blue curve by
your thigh it returned. Felt
something shift in your skull—
no one saw it. Every day we must
live this. If you vanish
you are still there. Smoke,
do your laundry—one still has dignity—
no one has noticed. What good
is a conversation in darkness that
isn't raw. I boxed it up,
lived two floors above it, said
just a few words. Requiring no company
we stayed there. Inseparable
loneliness. It left, it raged,
it wished to be quit of all pain—
who can blame it? I loved it—
I opened my body to it. It tore
through my cells, blistered my eyes—
I took it into my arms told it
please. I held it to my throat un-
abashed. You are here to explain this
in torrents—a rain that never comes.
It left in the wind, it spoke as it turned,
it carried me nowhere. Pulling me
close to its cheek. Even now as it goes.