The sensation that something had broken open
on the other side,
In the dead of things, where all we couldn’t see
was now shut firmly into the possibilities of memory.
and how, without a word, peace within inability, you
let the evening fall through your hair,
dragging the night through,
And in that moment, laid so lightly upon the world
the last flight pulling the curtain across the grey
Still holding you up, fading every year:
the promises of exchange
All the things we give each other, from every early morning,
and we’ve lived in many places, and we looked––
and we’ve lived in many evenings,
listened to that music, howled, for each warranted reason,
and each, allowed beyond reason––
even where you can no longer see, even with no hope for salvation,
assured, against all endings, that this is the salvation itself.
