Moving Myself Around

I am a crumpled piece of notepaper 
moving myself around the house like a scared tenant. 
I consider cave-life, 
but caves are so wholly black and full of nightimes.

Roads were animal prints I followed. 
My heart a slick, scrubbed, washed wood-thing
with unsayable complaints– 
a marathon I ran first thing before I was awake.

The day after we sleep together, 
the keys lonesome on desks,
I am a bald soul silent 
under a tarp waiting for spring.

Near the End 

The shape of my hand against the sky as I drive. 
The night where we left it. 

We are ancient and nearly done with each other. 
Wooden instruments whine in their houses for us. 

The grit of our lives simmers just over there– 
a jammed film reel: a smear of juice from the fruit, 
my crossed heart inside my animal lungs. 
The scene inseparable 
from the rest of the world. 

Under indecisive skies 
the green in the early 
year will come, out of the sheen. 

I sit at the cliff. 
I almost love him.