Nickel tips, bruised hands that won’t heal,
the burled finish of battered wood burnish the day.
In seven rooms that face the river,
chalk cliffs eroding in the rainfall,
I pace my panic.
Uncapped paints pile table and desk.
Mystery lines furtive
with rhythm and conjecture,
ink pages of contrition,
seek conciliation by remembrance.
Take your time in Babylon,
take your turn in Kabul or Jerusalem.
Arrival ceremonies, the hangman’s departure,
husband and child missing from the terminal gate
are panels settled in a painter’s gallery.
Each day a different smile: courtesan lilt,
business bright, modest mistress of the sewing room.
There is a conceit—
hailed, harbored by each city’s lover,
that your restless grace leaches a world pale,
your gravity in sleep commissions a meteor’s demise.
Rumor clash, insinuations of afterthought
trade lighter as I age.
I stand away from insult
as I stand away from drink.
The blues hat fits the older man better.
I attempt no offense. I leave easy.
The evening turns late, light-hollowed,
alley brush cut back from bar back doors,
trash barrels lined like rifles in a barracks.
Asking my question twice,
I’ve heard no answer.
Water’s fall blooms to the moon,
splashes white as it falls, as it flows
framed by river banks, cliff walls,
night whorl of water.
Car lights and lightning slice the window’s pane.
I hold your husband’s wary note,
a check, a pair of airline tickets.
Town car idling, we argue destination and direction.
Opinions hold, bitter and bearing gifts.