I wait a bit for the differences

and the indifferent to darken, then

I open the windows. 

It is not urgent

but I do it to keep motion from warping.

I borrow my former curiosity’s head

and twist.  Not twist exactly.

I nod a servile good evening to all

those fawners of the fears, the stars. Not nod

exactly.  I fix with a gazing thread

the silver buttons of distance, some of which

are undone, tremble, and will fall.

It is not urgent.  I do it only to show distance

my gratitude for its offering.

Without distance

long trips would shrivel. The universe

our need to flee had pined for

would be delivered to our door by motorbike

like pizza.  Like a leech

old age would suck on youth and I’d be called

grandmother from birth

equally by eros and grandbabies.

What would the stars then be

without distance’s provident support?

Earthbound silver, some candelabra, ashtrays

for the spent butts of pugnacious wealth,

and fawning’s investment bubble.

Without distance

nostalgia would speak to us in thees.

Her now rare timid rendezvous

with our plethoric need

would fatally assimilate

frequency’s street-smart speech.

Of course, without distance, our neighbor

wouldn’t seem a far-off star — he’d be

in prime proximity, two steps would bridge

his outline from a dream.

As also nearby the soul’s

ultimate escape would stay.

Why so much wanderlust?  Whole rooms

are empty. We’d go downstairs

to live in our basement body

and distance with its myth and odds and ends

would incarnate to flesh.

If not for you, distance, Lethe would,

much easier and faster in one night,

traverse her difficult protracted adolescence

which we, for euphony, name recall.

Not recall exactly. I fix facsimiles

with a gazing thread — they’ve come undone,

are trembling, and will fall.

Not fix exactly.  Servile, I orbit

those fawners of time which I, for brevity,

named recall.  Not recall exactly. I refuel meteors

with extended annihilation. 

                                           It is urgent.

RESURRECTION WEEK