Deftly Remembered Eden

dealing with loss is not
as easy as putting pen
to paper, or thinking long
on the innate decency of
man as expressed in the
“have a good evening”
of the flight attendant.

leaving you at the airport
is harder than the farthest
equation, mostly because
of the same mystifying
reasons — the pile driving —
and the way they contort,
twisting field games in my
chest.

staying awake all night as
a sentence is one thing,
listening to the rhythmic
thump thump thump of
my chest and thinking
of the decency of our
blind-eared roommates
as we were having sex
is quite another.

now all the excitement
of the last few days has
died down, it behooves
you to listen to the stars.
a bright constellation
above a motel cable tv
flashes animated characters,
a moonlit non sequitur.

i am there

and the car spits up carpark
gravel as yet again we pull
out of another NO VACANCIES
onward to the feeling
blind of night. is there a word
for the way i felt enveloping
you when the crowds stopped
thump thump thump.

why is everything a departure?
like the way i try and say
something, and the distance
left by the type is a cruel
echo of intention, devoid of the
innate decency of driving
(meaning side by side)
through some deftly
remembered eden; the
weight of it all in retrospect,
the lingering burn in my arm
after i drop off your luggage
and “have a good evening”.

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