When the Water’s Gone

Call me when you get to the speeding

soft ambivalence of lips, the fleeting
kiss that takes away the hours.

It's been caught up
in the static of middle age--
aching loins no more, the bed

not as warm as the dark downstairs
room  with a hard leather couch
& the sleeping dogs who are

sad, like me for they know time
is only a convenience, at best
a concave lens that can

only open the last bit of light so far.
In this room, clean swept and free
my lover & I drift

into the dream world with the fire
murmuring hope in its own iron-clad
room where it can whisper all night.

The Warmongers are against me tonight,

the cold passion of atomic ignition

makes more sense

than illuminated visions I have
of apple-shoulders cupped
in my soft hands, hair

like black honey on the pillow.
20 years out, my life reminds me
of a ship's quarters what a long

voyage this became--
the  shallow hallways, the broken
switches on the wall. The children

are all but gone, we are done
& they like small green
planets depart our ken, the pen

or nest they must leave.  So this
plan of mine worked.  But I go
alone into the night as usual.