Our gauche expanse
of hand-made drapery deadened
the deafening echoes,
but that blasted life story of yours
finally stupefied me.
When I stopped loving you,
we owned the middle of a river,
and that flow swiftly twisted
around the entire house
before carrying the candy,
blue chair and couches
out to the calm sea.
Now I search the ground for splintered beams
to toss into the sun-struck stream
and dam those home movie scenes:
Shoving myself from room to room,
packing only the loosest clothes,
stumbling in front of my own gunpoint.
Any exciting dialogue
has been miniaturized into advertisements,
exploded on road signs,
tongue-twisted into clanging
machines I coax along
these walls of memory and desire
for the incredibly red collisions.
Your portrait in mosaic
moves through changes of expression:
A full moon’s cycle of eyebrow
swept up in surprise;
the cheekbone equinox
shifting shadow across your nose,
its bridge swayed slightly.
The bare eyelashes
have just begun to fill
with full green leaves,
and pebbles, summer wet,
smooth your brow.