eggs.
       Today the tomb
       is not empty, the stone
       still wedged in. I canât go on
       distracting myself
       from the smell
       of burial spices
       the disturbed earth, you
       have not come back.
Â
X
       Fridays are the hardest.
       Your body moves through
       happy hours without
       me, I canât even
       chart you,
                      I want
       to see the lines
       you make
       on the map of the city,
       if they cross the lines
       I make, do we
       create a pattern
       unknowingly,
                      does my finger
       run down the glass
       at the table you just left
       at the café on Dekalb? We are
       no longer destinations,
       single blinking dots.
Â
XI
       If I forget, remind me
       when we drove
       past the dry roadside
       farms, remind me when I looked out
       on the neat
       wheels of hay, my breathing
       hard then stilled, what you never said
       when I wiped my face,
       remind me of your
       neglect and the long ditches
       and if I forget the annulling
       of the day, if I want a night
       with you, let that car ride
       remind me.
Â
XII
       Our first time back together,
       magnets, my body
       pushed into you and your eyes
       rolled back. The second time
       I stared at your feet
       while I sucked you off
       the small muscles
       in my calves squeezed
       and released.
       The heart?
       The first position of union, the second
       something polar,
       getting back to your place
       that first time
       was like flight. The second,
       traffic at the bridgeâas if the city
       said wait here
       donât cross the water .
Â
XIII
       here take a universe     darts of light     a pan flute
       chirps our ending song     go now to the cedary wield of smooth
       creatures     of glabrous torsos caprine legs     who am I
       to clasp seedstorms barehanded     mornings when the surf
       clung to its mist     stubborn     I will make this break soft as skiff
       on water     gone in a sprint you sleek windjammer     I give you
       Juneâs
       Today the tomb
       is not empty, the stone
       still wedged in. I canât go on
       distracting myself
       from the smell
       of burial spices
       the disturbed earth, you
       have not come back.
Â
X
       Fridays are the hardest.
       Your body moves through
       happy hours without
       me, I canât even
       chart you,
                      I want
       to see the lines
       you make
       on the map of the city,
       if they cross the lines
       I make, do we
       create a pattern
       unknowingly,
                      does my finger
       run down the glass
       at the table you just left
       at the café on Dekalb? We are
       no longer destinations,
       single blinking dots.
Â
XI
       If I forget, remind me
       when we drove
       past the dry roadside
       farms, remind me when I looked out
       on the neat
       wheels of hay, my breathing
       hard then stilled, what you never said
       when I wiped my face,
       remind me of your
       neglect and the long ditches
       and if I forget the annulling
       of the day, if I want a night
       with you, let that car ride
       remind me.
Â
XII
       Our first time back together,
       magnets, my body
       pushed into you and your eyes
       rolled back. The second time
       I stared at your feet
       while I sucked you off
       the small muscles
       in my calves squeezed
       and released.
       The heart?
       The first position of union, the second
       something polar,
       getting back to your place
       that first time
       was like flight. The second,
       traffic at the bridgeâas if the city
       said wait here
       donât cross the water .
Â
XIII
       here take a universe     darts of light     a pan flute
       chirps our ending song     go now to the cedary wield of smooth
       creatures     of glabrous torsos caprine legs     who am I
       to clasp seedstorms barehanded     mornings when the surf
       clung to its mist     stubborn     I will make this break soft as skiff
       on water     gone in a sprint you sleek windjammer     I give you
       Juneâs
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