a bunch of people all saying ‘no’ at once,
a collective grimace—
that’s the toll that is the ass tax,
collected in the present past.

to dream of those formerly pledged love to
and then wake bruisy inside, depleted,
having left everything to another time & place,
having left everything soaked up in sheets.

it’s funny now—you in these heavy shoes
on cut-stone floors, in a cut-stone home,
making eyes at the desert & artisans,
making eyes to make eyes,
and it’s so good to see you,
seems we have waited so very long—
haven’t i seen you before?

there was a punch-up of lines
and thinks thunk in the night,
i would’ve sworn everybody said everything
simply having known no better,
but still you looked good standing there waiting
and the best line, the very best line,
was the one you said about the arrival of trains
and the uniqueness of smiles.

to have come all this way
with so many tight-packed bags
was a feat of no small endurance—
a precious thing with homely exterior,
and the talk now is funny for entirely different reasons,
the talk now is of you
and it is drawing across the sky.