You Never Go Far, Really
It would be like me to seem drunkard's clumsy,
without a liquor’s drop to my name, sloshing,
spinning about the glass, in ill-suited fashions
of cut khaki and pocket cloth, I never had
It would be like me to lose eyeglasses,
shape finders and little bits of paper with the world
scribbled on them; all falling from possessions'
memory, the things that could see our
It would be like me to take four months from
a job to be done in eight, leaving it behind
to a whirring of engine, an ocean drop of
continental cloud; some kind of friend
It would be like me to half-heart escapes,
still being a same pillar of opposed calm,
nerves nauseous as thrown stone, flashing
green light never was something grand
And it would be like you to remind.
The first thing was the bitter hobble, landing
gear on yellow-strip concrete, same as
countless still as weary, the tearing shreds
of stomach woozy with small cups and cellophane,
finally to still as eyes
came open with newborn rubbings.
Next it was the flitting thought, the back-and-forth
of ceramics unfamiliar, never to meet ourselves,
the same walking across again, would
have soaked in the rain, tempered cold
with hearty abandon, reckless to the touch,
the same as their belongings.
And it was the first of the gin and perfume,
the bitter pint and pitter-patter from tourist
shutterbulbs, the last sudden impulses of
childhood's wishful banks, crossing rivers
with recognition of thousands of small
turns, little deaths, we each were taking,
And it felt like I'd made it.