by James Kimbrell
has a giant hand diagrammed in front of her place
on West Tennessee.
It towers above a kudzu hill as if
to offer a cosmic How！
as in Hello！ from a long
way off， as in how
she already knows
the sundry screwed up ways a day
can go days before
I park my wreck on the hill again beside
her white Mercedes.
O little slice of Lebanon！
O cedar scented
cards fanned like feathers
of a Byzantine peacock！
Tell me again how I might have been a fine lawyer，
that I'll raise four kids in Tallahassee，
how I married-it's true-on my lunch break-Yez
she took you to lunch okay a zeven year lunch ha ha！
Incense. Mini-shrine.
A wagon train of chihuahuas snoozing by her slippers.
You have anxious about a furniture… I do.
But lately I've grown cold，
unconsoled by her extrasensory view.
I think no need to speak-across
the black tabletop， I don't want to know
if I'll find a bright city，
a room by the river， a love
I will recognize
by her dragonfly
tattoo. O narrative of ether！
O non-refundable
life facts！ say that what happens may not matter，
or that it matters as any
story does when two fresh lovers
embrace the old pact
（her bra on the chair，
his socks in the kitchen） that says
their love is level，
unfabled， new. Level with me，
tell me why the dogs on the floor，
little moon fed hounds of Delphi， seem so over it，
so done with the fleas of destiny.
Maybe that's the right attitude，
no need to ask why I'm here on a perfectly blue Friday，
content with what the thin air，
what the dust motes in the light say near the high window.
I should've learned that music long ago
O soundless number！
O jukebox of being that the dogs dream to！
No faux crystal ball，
no tea leaves or terrace in the nether
reaches of my palm
will make her answers
less like hocus pocus in a purchased dark.
It's time to pay， to drive away
from telepathic altitudes， to say adieu
to why love ends. How
How a heart opens again.
Why anything is true.
has a giant hand diagrammed in front of her place
on West Tennessee.
It towers above a kudzu hill as if
to offer a cosmic How！
as in Hello！ from a long
way off， as in how
she already knows
the sundry screwed up ways a day
can go days before
I park my wreck on the hill again beside
her white Mercedes.
O little slice of Lebanon！
O cedar scented
cards fanned like feathers
of a Byzantine peacock！
Tell me again how I might have been a fine lawyer，
that I'll raise four kids in Tallahassee，
how I married-it's true-on my lunch break-Yez
she took you to lunch okay a zeven year lunch ha ha！
Incense. Mini-shrine.
A wagon train of chihuahuas snoozing by her slippers.
You have anxious about a furniture… I do.
But lately I've grown cold，
unconsoled by her extrasensory view.
I think no need to speak-across
the black tabletop， I don't want to know
if I'll find a bright city，
a room by the river， a love
I will recognize
by her dragonfly
tattoo. O narrative of ether！
O non-refundable
life facts！ say that what happens may not matter，
or that it matters as any
story does when two fresh lovers
embrace the old pact
（her bra on the chair，
his socks in the kitchen） that says
their love is level，
unfabled， new. Level with me，
tell me why the dogs on the floor，
little moon fed hounds of Delphi， seem so over it，
so done with the fleas of destiny.
Maybe that's the right attitude，
no need to ask why I'm here on a perfectly blue Friday，
content with what the thin air，
what the dust motes in the light say near the high window.
I should've learned that music long ago
O soundless number！
O jukebox of being that the dogs dream to！
No faux crystal ball，
no tea leaves or terrace in the nether
reaches of my palm
will make her answers
less like hocus pocus in a purchased dark.
It's time to pay， to drive away
from telepathic altitudes， to say adieu
to why love ends. How
How a heart opens again.
Why anything is true.