*
You wash this floor the way winter
waits for its ice to stir
show more interest in coming closer
and the drowned --what bubbles up
is bottom sand though you drift
and further out more water
unable to dry so far from home
--a single drop by drop
wipes down the world and longing
--it's how you sleep
leaking from your pores
this side then that breaking open
holding on to each other and now
without shape, making it through
as surfaces and nearer.
*
You must enjoy the risk
swallowing rainwater, splashing
so close to the ground
wait alone for the train
you know is never in time
can't rub the tracks dry
or keep you from leaning too far
--it's the chance you take, wave
--sometimes waves, sometimes for nothing.
*
From the same glass
--it's the risk they take
jumpy, out in the open
the way a puddle, to this day
ices over, survives the winter
as one hand uneasy with another
--you drink from a glass
too heavy, half frost, half
water that keeps its voice
safe, no longer in some stream
listening for more water
though you drown holding on
to your favorite glass
that no longer remembers you
or better days.
*
This wall and sunlight
hiding under the faded wallpaper
though its flowers no longer move
--a single 3X5 snapshot
brings the room down
in flames and further off
the rickety wooden frame
smelling from corners
already broken open
lifted alongside in pieces
and the glass in pieces
holds you closer, closer
and your chest keeps warm
--it alone left standing
as if the wall you don't use anymore
could recognize the place
without getting lost, or your voice
or the arms next to her.
*
Between these graves and every Sunday
you bring the wide, floppy hat
--on each visit, the red scarf
before the light she asks for
cools, hardens into the back and forth
that cradles each small stone
--she's not interested in stone
and tells you so though it's not Sunday
--it's not any day, just winter
stone bars and you wait outside
for the gate to show up
or how long she's been in.