Because I mistrust my head
& hands, because I know salt
tinctures my songs & prayers,
I tried not to touch you
even as I pulled you into my arms.
Seasons sprouted & went to seed
in a country between us, one
step from a bed of blooms.
I gazed at myself, an arch-heir
of second chances, kissing you
in this out-of-body travel.
Because I know twelve ways
to be wrong, two to be good,
& because I was wounded
to the quick, beneath blame
& the idea of blame, there
at the final question in the cave,
this side of a spirit level’s
quiver, I didn’t want to hug you
like a cross. I’m here
to let desire measure me
from each numbered bone to the next
ghost chance in the heart’s nomenclature
of wings. I only want to hold you
this way: a bundle of orchids
broken at the wet seam
of manna. Everything
empties out sighs, & the trembling
runs from one end of this world
to whatever holds us together
in several worlds. Holding hands
at midnight in the East Village
& laughing at Nothingness,
as Fall shakes the smoke
of the Chicago Blues Club
from our clothes, you say I make you happy
& sad. For years, I stopped my hands
in midair, knowing a flame
at the root-stem of Yes.
For you, I am almost a virgin
again. Every time I say Shirley
another name dies in my mouth
because I crave something to sing
the blues about, ecause I know how
to erase a map of footsteps.