Friday, July 2, 2010

It's a question of what we build on (Geology #1)

Some nights this is geology.
I have just woken up, and it is dark. You’re
next to me, breath quiet, eyes closed. The night is limestone
shot through with caves, and I'm wandering where I shouldn't again.

There was a girl who was like three deer crossing a road
under a streetlight: one, two, three.
There was another like a raven’s wing, iridescent and permanent in memory.
There was the first, who was the heron rising from the lake and its reflection,
while everything else stood still.
Somehow, no matter where I’ve been,
going home at three a.m. always smells the same.
The orange lines
spraypainted on the road
are like instructions for folding, for laying pipe, for moving.

I know what the air will feel like.
I know the click the latch on the door will make
quietly enough.
I am sandstone, only worn more rough
by staying.

And then your breathing changes. The slim
river of your spine rearranges itself against the mattress,
and you look over and ask me what I’m thinking.

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