Lighthearted #3

Cataloged in your history between your first move 

and your last taste of espresso, my hardback volume

loses pages each month, and I thank the years for passing. 

In the expanse of ruined neighborhoods, we had a laugh

at the peace we found a couple thousand miles 

from our conflicts—the admitted relief of escape.

I thought the cosmos was born between a dashboard
and the rear windshield's heated lines,
but your condensation drawings dried in the summer.

I grew up the way you'd expect: with the stories 
of strangers, with the sharp climate of new cities.
I heard a soldier tell of leaving his wife and family. 

I heard myself reconstruct the past as it flickered 
through the subway window.  So I left it underground
and tasted the universe like I hadn't before.

The truth of leaving

The truth of leaving
is the end of your small pain,
then the worst hunger.

Lighthearted #2

You woke when my car coughed, and
you tripped up the steps while I drove.
You said it's easier to have no hope
than to have two and choose.
You said it comes down to how
much gasoline I can afford.

I set you a place for dinner, and
I set a record for getting home.
I said the winter only comes rarely
and now it's ours to own.
I said there's room by the hearth,
where I burn my books for heat.

You said the best part of saving
is spending it all in the end.
You said the best part of staying up
is the orange morning light.
You broke an egg, broke the quiet
and said no more highway.

Lighthearted #1

After 25 ounces of 2009 wine,
you told me it's not healthy to drink
by yourself, so I opened a new one
to drink for us both.

When my eyes shut, you said,
"Don't bother coming home."
Half asleep, I said, "This is my house,
and we don't live together."

You said, "In the morning I'll be gone."
In the dark I laughed and said
"I know, but when you get off work
come see me again."

You slept, I hiccuped, and the rain
filled my car. I bit my tongue
to keep from singing
then I slept too.