Within the rush to fusion total separation
occurs, echoing your beating heart;
you discovered the stars that glide
across midnight in his eyes

and wake to the sunlight skipping across
the planes of dust he stirs
as he drags his feet across the thick carpet.

He thinks you’ll be asleep
when he gets back, and you may be
lying there but, you’ll be far
from sleep. You need his dark and know
what he does, still the sun is
a constant reminder.

You begin to imagine the vast bridge
between here and the double
shotgun you rented on Canal is a short jump
across a tiny rill. —– You can see the rill,
high on a green mountain and the river it spawns
running to become a raging ocean.

You smell the coffee and hear the chaotic rhythm
of his fingers on the keyboard.

You wonder what he writes.

You use to read his words, the frayed edges
of a recorded life, while he wrote more.

He was a connoisseur and you were a waitress.
You struggled as the sweet air of New Orleans filled your lungs.
You knew better then to write, so
you say.

You haven’t sung in years, the urge wells in you.