I would not go back
though some of my skin is looser now
and my hips are sometimes rusty
on their hinge.
Do not count out the rhythm I carry,
muddled and muffled though it may be-
that is life coursing through my shimmy;
the message sounds like trees
and feels like wind to me.

Beneath the quiet,
the tucked-in,
the folded pages of him,
he laid down glimpses
of wooden spoons
and open robes,
bathing in their memory
until she picked up
a thread
leading to his attic,
as cluttered and dusty as hers,
which in its glory
had been at best
a summer song
but now only sounded lost;
they found harmony
in their blackened hearts
and wished only
for a little time to sing.

I won’t tell
how long I stood
on the steps
inhaling the old building smell-
but I’ll tell you,
my knees shook a little
with the intoxicating memory
of books and empty stairwells
and how I craved
holding hands,
at the start.

Imagined promise
standing inside an echo
clutching a can of soup
with no crackers

When night
reaches obscene levels of blue
and air is permeable
(not like Venus),
who will you conquer
when the wind cries, “mercy!”