1
On my wall no poem of yours
hangs, no birthday greetings flap
as I drink up and pace
this orbiting cube without breeze,
still I miss you with your stories
fetched like mine from the flimsiest
memories to keep words flowing.
Illusion, sweet illusion of marriage
almost as if your daughter
going wild at dinnertime without you
were also mine, little Nicholle
or whatever her name was
charmed by stairways leading up.
2
So, El Paso has you now
and the impossible fact that you will somehow
change, go dry and repent or something
is half a month old
while there in Fremont your mother
mothers and grandmothers to a T,
while I thank God I met you
and curse the inner planes
I didn’t steal you away to bed immediately,
your exuberance teamed with my
apocryphal expertise forever in lamblike sleep
that healed and wizened us
for the last surprising coincidence
given to beautiful lovers.
3
What is it I really wanted to tell you?
Your squeeze for emphasis on my arm
was better than the old in-and-out,
your thigh against my thigh while you slept
was mighty pleasant too.
The serpent in repose dreamed up
a man aloft who was me then, and poor drunken Cerano
nearby asked between belts of whiskey
were you my wife, were you my wife,
were you my wife and I had to say
No because it was the truth
though I hated it
as I hate to forget you.
4
And where are you, anyhow?
I can be in El Paso like that!
Fremont is a little more difficult.
Thinking about it for a second
the whole thing seems impossible
but by the impossible Christ
I’ll see you again,
I insist.
Noel, I mastered astral projection
tonight and am scanning Texas for you,
I’m not kidding.
Maybe that was you who said
my name.