A Cargo of Green Hearts
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.
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