Old brick and mortar surround
the clowns who dance for me in the garden,
in a divine intrusion of sunlight or God, 
in a dead heat for last with my passion and penances
recited by the postman from your letters.

You tell me about the last bolt of crazy blue
inspiration you saw before hitting the turnpike
and it’s swelling rain clouds, daring you
to dance in the lightening or return home;
how you revolve outside redemption and then stumble
into the night with some friends,
carving a history into the soft walls of all night
strip joints, getting a lap dance, fucking through dawn
or do laundry and write me about the cool clear
water that fills the machine, ‘like your voice in my ears’;
the quiet in the eyes of midnight penetrated
by light through the small cracks where my tears fell.

You always said a cat would be the greatest lover,
that I wouldn’t always hate them while cleaning
the blood from my lips and trumpet
before lying down on satin sheets.

I questioned nothing as she continued to write
with her back to the mirror, drinking rain and firewater,
blinking slowly to moisten her swollen lenses.
You never spoke and I never told you anything
except there is no such thing as instinct but you can
dive into the restless sand of an hourglass with eyes wide, wild, staring.



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