From on top of the roof, I hope you distill me into heady gaze
as uncompromising as a codeine problem.
Sometimes things are all right. Your hands catching flame,
we can laugh, for once, at your dousing-yourself-in-gasoline-problem.
Sometimes we’re at the pool. It’s rock-candy crystal blue
and feels like nothing. We baptize and drink
from it and don’t talk about you going. Sunwashed teeth
grin around the indifferent emblem of a nicotine problem.
With your lips corked you broke the wall in the laundry room
so a stowaway could sleep under the staircase. One day I hear
his balmy breath with a start. Your fidelity smells like detergent.
Years later, I develop a spending-time-on-washing-machines-problem.
I’ll definitely never go on a cruise ship again. Shimmering atlantic
basketball court island, you don’t teach me to be the underdog in time.
This place is gone; I know what happened here. But if we’re pretending
you’re here we can pretend you never had one.