The Long Marriage

The Long Marriage

If it is true that I, you, don't exist but we are in it

                   for the eternity, for the once

in the pink-orange blazing dawn I put on

your black underwear.

            Doing there, in my drawer,

            stunned/pleased at the hip-fit,

 years to a bus       you jumped out of

in your duct-taped boots        (there was snow),

            you were so happy to be coming to see me

              I saw you from the window's

                   vectored frost,            a brown feathery

    hen, here to roost, though you

              were the male. Now the white birch drifts

               a thousand motes      back into the house

               to eat off our dust and fly.

We sire and wench, harmony and ash

        until conversation, consumption,

      interrogation, and the small back of the sweet talk

become so paradisical, primitive, warped

         I fall into the lace of your gutter,

       pretty nice there,

       and we have to wire prose into the talk to get the poem,

to get the rope that runs long and free

   out the cave. Mastodon-like to crawl on all fours to birth

some intelligibles.

          Got a grease fire in the kitchen for a long time coming.

     Couples forming a rustling seriality

up city hall's granite steps'

    nightlong cormorant moon, 20 pairs of black underwear in a superbag

       be-lit with break

of dawn's exalt

as when media hyper-glosses our lives but not as bad

    as your mom and dad, and we think of

our dreams with their heterodoxy and did I tell you mine or dream it

the lava-like tar

congealing into blue-black bubbles in asphalt

we could pop with each step.

     Sissy Spacek and Martin Sheen in the movie of our first

     date both so young all they could do was kick thoughtlessly at the dirt

and kill everyone in their wake

      but us. Spacek's short shorts her child-like, almost woman-like

legs. Sheen's cigarette pack folded back into the sleeve of his T-shirt,

we rose/stumble/found each

           other's hands up the aisle pitch dark

and stood before the turn lights

           turning jade green water. If anoint is a drop of oil

on our foreheads,       if one by one alteration finds,

we toss our hair down a tower

for longer arousal. We want to be seen in the eyes of the government.

    If marriage is Empire's locket

we get in bed like students to its sheets

    though we hate the acquisition and the light moves.

How many instances of unity feel more like

   bicycles attached to cars.

     But that was your dream.

I get on the bus going nowhere in particular,

sit in sun for the warm.

   The bus heaves sideways before lurching

      down our street crowded (it is Wednesday) with the Episcopalian's

     AA meeting's

       cars, each shining, obediently

              parked. Luck, its inexact clarity.

        Soft as tracing paper the house lay

    loose linoleum,

carpet, tile and oak for surfaces

to pace, parse, backtrack.

               If this is the hallway

          where a savage tiger with stitches mends itself and runs.

                  We cannot occupy it absolutely, ion, eon.

            If this is the vertigo of another.

                  One song alone, one spinet,

          many breezes, firmament, and water.

     The psalm and plasm in the particulars

of the jungle where we walk to see it snow.

If we are so angry

If we are so happy.

If no eye contact. The wind tears hard at it.