Spray Paint
Far beyond a detour, and without the momentum
to spare, I return to well-tested fields
of speculation: bodies off-kilter, fuzzy angles from the moon
catching moths and skin cells and shadows
that never fully settle. I catch you sober
against a sheet of very cold steel
and between us are two slits:
in one reality, we are the people we fall asleep as
this morning, and in the other, this morning
never happens. Why keep track
of which is wave and which is collapse. Why keep track
of subtle shifts in speech? I give my word
to small and densely populated targets. Spray paint
floor to ceiling, then thin out
the filaments of our Edison bulb, release their sputters
from cobweb eyelids. Never mind the distance
rearranged by a darkened room—I know how to find you
through calculated touch: one hand
stretching steady for the crest, the other
pressing down on twilight—
You tell me you love me
down to the Planck length, and all I can do is watch
my shoulders soften into a deep blue song
from somewhere else. The sun is up
and there are candy wrappers in the cushions, there are dirty socks
moving around the house. I pick up what I know
is ours. You pick up two blue Gatorades
a pouch of tobacco. This is how we still
the spin: bright green branches
of budding backyard lemons, so many delicate measurements
refusing totality
Published by Spectrum Literary Journal, vol 66, 2023
Far beyond a detour, and without the momentum
to spare, I return to well-tested fields
of speculation: bodies off-kilter, fuzzy angles from the moon
catching moths and skin cells and shadows
that never fully settle. I catch you sober
against a sheet of very cold steel
and between us are two slits:
in one reality, we are the people we fall asleep as
this morning, and in the other, this morning
never happens. Why keep track
of which is wave and which is collapse. Why keep track
of subtle shifts in speech? I give my word
to small and densely populated targets. Spray paint
floor to ceiling, then thin out
the filaments of our Edison bulb, release their sputters
from cobweb eyelids. Never mind the distance
rearranged by a darkened room—I know how to find you
through calculated touch: one hand
stretching steady for the crest, the other
pressing down on twilight—
You tell me you love me
down to the Planck length, and all I can do is watch
my shoulders soften into a deep blue song
from somewhere else. The sun is up
and there are candy wrappers in the cushions, there are dirty socks
moving around the house. I pick up what I know
is ours. You pick up two blue Gatorades
a pouch of tobacco. This is how we still
the spin: bright green branches
of budding backyard lemons, so many delicate measurements
refusing totality
Published by Spectrum Literary Journal, vol 66, 2023