If memory were impossible,

ice wouldn’t melt.

I wouldn’t imagine your death. So much

of my waking time 

questioned, consulting a book

in which the orator says,

We are no longer lovers. We don’t drown in the sea

of ourselves. And proof? Being ill-trained

at secrets. I eject your hand from mine

in public darkness, become rotten

and watch your frustration cry to the night.

But man, man-man, where will we meet?

A sweet spot, islanding, umbrella drink, wood-grain

of your coffin–no, no, no, let's be

together. Here, hit me hard across the face. 

Now turn into a cockroach or make me

come again. Not both, please, but somewhere

in the middle, we could stand on what turret

remains. Where exactly? Lift your foot. Here,

a floor, the stain before it touches down. Watch,

and keep watching. I am grateful

our love is not gut-wrenching. It has not made

an idiot of me. It’s our good breathing

and all else I refuse to give up.

To put my lips next to your cheek under

cover of sound, not shoreless but streaming

to the hill where you wait.