Dir. Steve McQueen.
Love is a result of a chance encounter
So every time she wants to say I love you
She tells me ‘I only love you, because I met you, had I not, I’d love someone else’
And I laugh because it’s adorable
And so I tell her
‘I only love you, because you exist, had we not met, I would always have this deep underlying love for you’
And it’s true
So is love really a chance encounter
Or is it my fate
To love you
When, as you will, you leave me in the dust
someday, remember how I carved a heart
in the ice still whiting out half your rear
window, so when you looked back you’d recall
the heart I lost to you & you had left
behind, as you fought traffic down the road.
In point of fact, the heart you took in then
broke yours when it broke into tears that streaked
your vision of the distance you had come
from where I made the gesture you would find
etched on glass as if for good. My heart goes
with you, it said before it melted down
from its own heat as fast as my own words
give me the slip, black ice under my feet.
Because the night is a scattering of sounds—blunt
branches hurtling to the ground, a nest stir, a sigh
from someone beside me. Because I am awake
and know that I am not on fire. I am fine. It’s August.
The scar on my neck, clarity—two curtains sewn.
A little door locked from the inside.
Nothing wants anything tonight. There are only stars
and the usual animals. Only the fallen apple’s wine-red crush.
Rabbits hurtle through the dark. Little missiles.
Little fur blossoms hiding from owls. Nothing wants
to be in this galaxy anymore. Everything wants the afterlife.
Dear afterlife, my body is lopped off. My hands
are in the carport. My legs, in the river. My head, of course,
in the tree awaiting sunrise. It dreams it is the owl,
a dark-winged habit. Then, a rabbit’s dash
to the apple, shining like nebulae. Then the owl
scissoring the air. The heart pumps its box of inks.
The river’s auscultations keep pace
with my lungs. Blame the ear for its attention. Blame
the body for not wanting to let go, but once a thing moves
it can’t help it. There is only instinct, that living “yes.”
I am no one’s romantic.
No. I am the sky’s shadow-wish
writing this only
to breathe its light.
I show you a falling sun,
passing like a lover,
to be near you, allowing
no star, no bulb on a corner lamp
to possess you as you are.
Look. Here I am, the sky’s moon
down. I will shave
a horizon out of peaks
like none your memory
has ever carved.
I show you a good sky.
Its broad blue ribbon will wrap
its mind around your eyes’ imagination
and tease you into smiles—
Now, be patient,
let your grieving rest awhile.