The expressionless teller at the first Virginia
the black fabric of your stockings or
the darkness of a closed news stand or
the way it feels to be face down on Nineteenth
The way the night shovels away the day,
the way two walls push each other back,
the way the airport bar empties out
and the leather bar stools look like serious drinkers.
And you went home and cried for three months.
And I brought you an apple wrapped in paper.
And I sat for hours in your kitchen chair
which, with help from the bright fluorescent lights,
kept me from falling through to the cellar
of Valhalla, as when we're lying by each other
and each of our bodies is keeping us both
Copyright c 2004 by Jonah Winter. May not be reproduced