He picks us away from each other
and leaves ourselves
sputtering against the wind's
thickness. I cried "stingy"
and let a whisper pass my ear.
I could have been a good sponge.

Their trip turned her conception
of him into a string
thin and long as the craggy trail
over the mountain.
His thighs are still recovering.
What won't end in the retelling
will come back wreathed
in vapor, waiting for shards of light.

The question is not metaphysical,
such as whether the source
of a vocalization is the chords or
the language: It is political.
Where he slides when he must
for the moment. We search for
further reasons which might not
be there, which leave us
at the mercy of our guesses, his
untimely hunches.

Light patched , bruises .
Beating eggs. Light flying and spitting.
   ...Birdshot. Light from the center of a storm.
An uncomfortable, middle heat
moving toward the extremities.
She is there in him like
a fuzzy ghost in a photo
taken in the dark. To the extremities.

We walk halls hoping to shift
away our focus from
his possible glare, but he
has entered even our spleens.
(I know this. My doctor told me.)
His real game is probably
working toward a trip to the moon
of his own invention where
he can do ballet tricks for his own
people. We are just his step --
a prodigal son exiled and training.

Drunk he can handle her
image in its full force as it tumbles
about his head. Sober he's a little
boy. Don't we wish we could all
be drunk that little bit, that short
moment where a crack appears
in perception and a cat angles
through it. Good-bye rattling.
She is the last instance of the wind
because the panes grew too tight.
Now watch what you could have had.