Is no longer the Moon or the Sun.
It is empty shadows nestled in light .
It is the agony of religious fervor:
Lightning, trembling bodies,
Soft sounds seeping through locked doors.
It is low music, silent melancholy,
In the hidden places of aging souls,
Grown, earthy and deep, from
The Holy Land of 1950s America.
"It is morning, time for breakfast
For thinking, for black coffee,
For toast and orange juice,
For over-easy eggs,
For Big Bold Headlines
That wrinkled the lines
Of my aging face.
I am thinking about N. always alone,
locked from the outside,
Turned inside-out. Or
Perhaps not, the radio's been
On lately, though he don't talk.
So, how do I feel since you've been gone?
Distant... taken over...
Looking over my shoulder constantly
for the view of our old neighborhood.
For the warm summers we left behind.
For your bright eyes and smile.
It is cold this morning, the bare-tiled floors
Shimmer under fluorescent lights hanging
Above the metal sink. The blue countertop
Needs cleaned, the wooden chair
Is the last support. Black like coffee.
Hard like faith.
I am thinking about the ways in which
We choose to live or die,
Am I still beautiful?
I am the town behind the house.
I am the blood of a new generation.
I am the voice in your head.
I am the hole in your heart.
I am the way out.
You see, I left your regrets.
The faces shine up from the kitchen floor.
The ghost in the closet whispering,
'vanity, vanity, vanity...'
Audi or Audrey...
Two faces I wore once for you,
Are thrown to the floor like
Ragged, burnt garments."
From the basement he heard the door.