when the minestrone was gone
and the cough was the only testimony
i – being sad
watched her leave
hungry and hurting and sick
later, when she was feeling better
i could apologize
give her hot coffee
offer a laugh
but the soup was gone
when she needed soup
and my words were gone
when she needed hope
and she was gone
when i needed to say
i’m sorry
i sense that you’re afraid
of fat and old and ugly too
all the things so me
and not quite you
i imagine how it might be
to love a man so half-like me
i sense that you’re afraid
of blind and sad and so lost too
all the ways a man is me
and not a bit like you
i imagine how it must be
to love a man so very me
i sense that you’re afraid
of hurt and pain and undried glue
on paper everything so me
in reality so unlike you
i imagine how it could be
to know a man a bit like me
i sense that you’re afraid
of hope and faith and bad beef stew
of being played by some man too me
while you’re being there so very you
i imagine now it must be
horrible to half-love me
Suppose Brazil is heaven – not so far away
as to be impossible to get to, but far enough
that I’ve never been. You might say this is fine
and I’ll get there when it’s time. Perhaps
you’re right, but more likely, because I know
I’m broken and lost and forgotten and feeling
like nothing more than a bag of bones under
a broken couch in a dirty parlor by a cracked sidewalk
in a busy little city half-a-world away, more likely
you’re not. More likely Brazil is heaven
and I’ll never learn Portugese, so that even if I get there
I’ll be alone, unable to find the toilet or the water
or that incredibly tall statue of Jesus — arms
outstretched, telling the real people who know
how to be there that they are forgiven.
what blue is that
above that waits
for the coming sun?
without the warmth
of hope and heart
until the day is done?
what cold is this
that greets each cheek
upon each vacant breeze?
i do not know, i can not say
— i do not dare
believe
if you do not tell me
your name, i can not tell you
how the world is round
i can not share the intimate details
of a cloud falling through the nothing
to the ground
if you do not share
your name, i can not whisper
how the moon is fleeing
i can not tell you when
the darkness will descent
upon we so most unseeing
if you do not tell me
your name, the silence becomes
the endless reaching
i can not imagine what”it means to be
we speak sometimes
of art and hurt
and time — as you pass by
without dessert
other times we do not speak
except to say
good bye
for another week
we speak sometimes
in smiles and bright eyes
in almosts and of course
long sighs
other times we do not speak
except to know
the cost of doing business
then we go
we speak sometimes
with nearly words
with loss unimaginable
the irony’s absurd
other times we dare not speak
for fear we’ll understand
life is very short
and every day is grand
what crazy does, it does
with fat toes and a small voice
like a chickadee on a cold morning
the moon forgets, of course,
because the morning comes
and the last sliver of the old
demented lunatic picks the sky
like a scab
when the sun pretends to warm
the hopeless gray — crazy whispers
dammit, please
go away
the moon remembers, perhaps,
later, because the noon is bright
and the first sliver of youths
wild mooning shocks the sky
like a bad decision
what crazy does, it does
without me and my skinny feet
like a chickadee ruffling its wings
tonight, the pain is real
and i ache with want
of sleep and hope
there is a dream, a quiet one
i want to dream
in my own bed — warm
and remembering
how kind a woman can be
tonight, the pain is real
and I ache with want
of touch, of kiss, of a voice
silent now and far away
the years are heavier
than i thought they’d be
and the cold is colder
and the night is longer
and she is not here
my shoulder hurts, tonight
i ache for a moment
again — she smiles
and then she is gone