I am sad. There is no help for it.
one by one the stars fled
from me like frightened animals
disappearing into holes; one by
one the rivers ran to the sea
and did not come back. I live
in this dry world, and am reminded
of Mars, which we thought had
life, canals like Venice, until
we were proven wrong and alone
in our sad orbit. The moon
is covering her kind face as
I write. The crickets have packed
up their small orchestras
and will not return. Winter
is waiting with its sharp icicles.
The sun, miserly, will not
fill my sky to the brim of noon.
All I have now is you
tender night, how you fill me, 
love these words out
of me, so that I will not drown
on them until I die.

some days the earth barely moves
the sun leans its shoulder
into the wall of the sky
and loiters there, the clouds
stretch out their long fleece tails
as if they had nowhere to go
could stay in the same spots
forever rearranging themselves
like Rorschach blots. it is as if
the waters of this earth crept
toward us slowly, surrounded
us to the necks and held us
like kind wrestlers. all the birds
stopped and listened, except
the white-throated sparrow
whose molasses song was too
slow to hush. the raspberries
are all gone but the watermelons
keep waiting. if you kiss me in
this moment
I will never stop kissing you.

strange, fear's command, how for weeks   

we spoke of nothing else, your ghost draped

furniture, your car accidents that could happen

pianos waiting to combust

men shuffling like Grendel in your basement

at the bottom of the earth. we sketched it on

the walls, described it in calligraphy, burned

it into the woodwork with match heads and needles

and our own fingernails. erased all the doors

turned out the lights to set the mood. so we

would know what it looked like if it came.

no one could say I did not do this for you

out of good intention. no one could say you did

not keep me informed. we leaped as high as we could to avoid

breaking bones. we drove as quick as we could

to avoid hitting cars. we ran as fast as your shadow

until it merged with mine at the five yard line.

meanwhile, the world went on

the birds singing, the trees fattening imperceptibly

and somewhere the ghosts of two lovers

walking out into a garden, telling ordinary stories

the shapes of clouds, the way leaves turn

in the wind, the lick of lake water against

skin, lovemaking and its many salty variables.

"they could have been our ghosts," I whisper

as I complete this design, give in to

the pull of the last brush-stroke

erase the last living window of light.