The silence is full of peculiarities,
like the bending of carpet fibers
and the fizz of water.

The sheets, blankets, and comforter
are bent back in two, as if phantoms occupy
my rest.

The walls scream that they are alone,
that they stand alone, and
have no corners.

I lay forgotten. A ring of gold in the pocket
of desire.

There once was a man. Of this I am sure.
But as the hours pass I remember less
the status of his chin or the class of his nose;
the rank of his brow or the courage of his hair line.
I find myself forgetting, and in forgetting
wondering if ever there was anything to know,
but still I gaze through windows and upset the couch cushions;
I look under papers and grope through the pockets of dirty jeans,
with a manic rush. As if, something important is slipping way,
like the middle two digits of a phone number, or the name of the girl
I met once while ordering coffee.
She had oak brown hair and blue-gray eyes. A fog skimmed reservoir,
which at once reminded me of the wet smell of morning and
the thrill of walking in on a world half-dressed.
And I hang to these things
for they are my metal; the truss and support that keep me,
that bequeath flesh to bone.
So when the heat ceases in my veins and my eyes hold no more room.
I remain.
** 5-3***
gray reservoir
and a girl I loved before I knew her name.