236. Direct

Not here. It has been many months
and none of us are tired anymore.
We can draw perfect circles,
eyes closed, humming our favorite song
backwards.

My friend tells me Venus is retrograde
and this means we work inside ourselves
and in forty-something days something about it
is supposed to end up on the outside.
I'd like that. For this to survive
on the outside.

Thing is, most of the time,
you open your mouth so wide
you're afraid you'll turn inside out.

And there is so much time spent
being afraid.

Preferred: No more room for sorrow here.
No more nights on the lawn of city hall,
no more accidental landings,
no more stolen washing machines.
We are both a window and a door.

Last night, Christmas, I don't remember the weather
but we almost got exactly what we wanted.

One: I think you belong to South Carolina.
Two: The landscape shakes
when you talk.
Three: You would like to not see another winter.
Four: When you've been drinking,
you ask me to go with you.

I don't like the snow either,
but I am New England and New England
is me. If I am with you, then I am a softness
that my body cannot afford
to be.