She asks to take
my hand
leans to find my mouth
with hers.
She places her body
over mine
the way a stone,
or a cup
is lain to
hold a scrap
of paper
in place.
Well, maybe
there are no signs of life,
or here in my back pocket
is regret
stained in its own stains,
soaked in everything inside,
like a receipt, or a driver’s license,
left in a pocket
left in the wash.
Though, how would she
or I know
the difference,
even applying
the ability
to read my mind
that she implies?
Anyone can only
encompass the measure of their reach.
No one feels the earth spinning.
Moons only orbit
their own orbits.
So, it’s useless to point at
what is true.
It’s not.
This world, the world down here
is water and
all we can guess at is
the depth of an object
and
the depth
we travel to
reach it.
What I’m trying to
get at is this: right
now she is taking me
into her,
but I am here instead
on the couch at that library
I wandered into today,
blinking up into
stacks upon stacks
without a poem,
without a single poem,
and she is whispering,
she misses me,
like a question
to a stranger
for directions.
Isle of Hoy 