lxxxvi.

I have met you, and I have met you
over the long-haul of the years

when the shadows grew long across the carpet
the night, swirling, singing through the window

whispered in the darkness, between the beds, the
distance is immeasurable, is small

when the kitchen light burns against the silent, rustling
night, the sage brushing under the street lamps

the meat sizzles in the pan, these words cannot be repeated
the windows are thick, the glow from the television

some other world, the strength of the door, is a thing
we believe in, the hallway, well-lit

the linoleum is old, the ocean coos across the plaza,
I held your hand, I think, after we left the auditorium

somewhere in a dark apartment, with the street rushing
outside--I have met you, and met you,

this sort of talk: it was no lie, I remember, I remember
the books stacked on the desk, the eddying

rush of aspiration: other places, the street corner, under
the light from the windows, the porch with the smoke

rising high, other places: under the eucalyptus and jacaranda,
the benches outside the grocery, the strange gap

in the wall, with forest seeping in, I remember the chatter,
I have met you--I have met you,

other places: I cannot imagine

the world eddies, it breaks--shard-like--this sort
of talk: it isn't for nothing