I May Yet Be Saved

My brain slowly arrives

Zadie’s eyes

are sliding shut. The grinding

of the garbage truck makes her ears

prick. I have longed

this morning. I have dwelled

this morning. This morning

And its pages. This morning

and its ages. Recently a chore

to compete to evade the tender

plumb of my mind, but now

I am finding my solace. Now

I am finding my solace.

I want to stop thinking about Love.

I want to Love.

I want to write. Folded leaf

above the radiator. Green joy.

Zadie and I will practice going

into the car—I will practice

Your going—tho—there may be some

time left—there may be some

time—

or all that is there

is time left.

Well, dialogue. On the time. There may yet be.

I grow time on the vine—

succulent grapes in your mouth—

your purchase of the cooperative.

Nothing luxuriates in the absence of love. You say

my hair, my hips.

If you believe you deserve the world.

It is as it should be.

I am trying to follow

The mind myself. I am trying to listen

to the small voice

speaking from the sinews.

Why do the eyes glaze with tears.

I am tired. I have computed.

I have catastrophized.

All week. Why. For money.

For fear. For absent

Love.

A life without. For fear of—

loss of solitude—

mobile phone as the silencer

on the gun directed at me

and my little dog’s heart.

No no

ontology

a question

well

I wanted to know.

I just wanted to know.

The love is secure.

And knowing

is impossibility; that essence you walk toward.

Smoke. Rain.

Doubt. Pain. That

and that

is the place you must go.

No more gunning

for a time long passed

like the portion of an orange rind

pressed to the bottom of a bowl.

No more bullets

on your alleged badness.

No more swelter.

I have ripped thru

the knot in my hair.

You have ripped the knot

out.