You Know How it Goes

first published in The Cortland Review (2010)

There may be a day where there’s nothing left to talk about.

A cold day with yawns pouring out of every crack

in every wall. When I may be under. When I’ve lied

it was to myself too. The garden of roses I’m never sending

was larger than the mail truck. Also I have no money.

There may be a time sometime when the illusion may crack

that everyone is something, or everyone is nothing, or

one or all of us is nothing or something.

That day I will slouch as usual and drink cold water as usual

even though it’s cold outside and in. And that day

I want nothing, for what’s there to want? That day

the ages may plop like a skipping stone done skipping

and sink into the black and static lake. And I don’t know

what else. Maybe the geese will stop shitting

in every public park. Maybe not. Maybe we’ll go barefoot anyway.

There may be a time that sinks into images, there may be

frost on my collar, dew on your sleeve, sweet basil on my head,

a rock balancing on your delicate foot. That day may happen,

don’t do nothing. I mean. Do. I mean. Let me talk

when no words come out, I’ll paint a picture

with just my lips, even if there’s

no air anymore, I swear.