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