In the Talking Dark

I remember death.
We send ourselves
everywhere. There is an order
to this house. It is the color
at the bottom of the well.
It is the slippery thing
in the lake.
It is a dead moon.

It is one of my personality flaws.
I am too particular.
People say things, and I hear things.

Now we have come home.

I never wanted
anything
(no anything)
bad to come of it,
nothing. No.

I remember postcards, and the boxes
we made of those postcards, and the houses
we made of those boxes.

(That we were
the things we loved.)

(That those things had homes.)

My eyes are so small
I can hardly see
what I need to see.
It is an early line
an urgent line.
A funny feeling in the tooth.
When it hurts to close your eyes.

It is the dark porch of the house
we live in.
(It is the dark porch of the house
we do not live in.)

We like things that look steady.

Well. Finally.
Our eyes have been met
in the other eyes.
Snow snow snow rain snow
to all life and inside it
The intent force of steeples.
Being sick sideways. Slick hands.
A life and aloft.
Were we ever alive?
I put it up as debris
the light changes it to candy
and it in the light is like you, somewhat.
The brave dirty sun aloft.
I am sorry if I have been losing.
if you like if you do not like.
Either way really, I am sorry.
Your clothes smell different
even all the way over there.
I am saying the snows are out.
You see, sometimes when fellows travel
They become unfellowed.
Tomorrow is like a woodcone
humming microphone.
battered dinnerware.
We were where we ever were.
Dipping oar into water
I make a wish about when
The bar will close.
It is a sad ratio.
Numbers are not good enough.
It has been a long time since
I could predict things.
Now, the universe thinks I am ugly.
Nothing is personal,
which is frankly a relief.
It’s okay to look, but not too long.