#6

some nights

I try to hold on to a magic

— a silly magic —

because most things cannot be explained.

I’m lying on a beanbag

or that corner sofa in the swelling cafe

listening, proper listening, to

what grief you’re trying to name

what melodies you sing

in the bathroom, what keeps you

loving. and I think —

purple looks so good

on you. I think of this peace,

this feeling in my breast, where all

is restful in the world, again.

the quiet is filling the space

again. the side walk is a

friend again.

you see, midnight

walks are the same no matter

your city, no matter where you are

in time, last May

or the years we don’t recall.

isn’t it nice to walk slowly?

you said once. I don’t know if you remember.

these days, we take pieces from each other

and no longer care for what we’ve lost

we trust in what we give.

these days we sit in a room

and find no need to talk

no need for smiling so well you call a migraine

because the body keeps score.

these days I go home and lie on the floor

see the lights shine its tacky shine.

see how beautiful you still are.

how beautiful it all is.