THE MOMENT OF THE WORLD

The better words we have

are the feathers on the wings

of effervescent angels

who'd prefer the poets of the earth

to cease staring in the mirror

of their self-assigned appellation

and leave the library, the desk,

that place where the muse goes to

wither,and walk out the door,

Take the elevator down 

and then a train out of town over mountains a

nd state lines to cities for that perfect cup of coffee,

that lingering kiss on a stranger's lips,

the waiting for traffic lights

at odd intersections

and with not a clue

about which way to turn

in this unfamiliar confusion.

Our angels might take 

their feathers back

if something isn't done.

Imagine us finally 

in the Day of Miracles

with cats and dogs

saints and shitheads

having civil meals,

tending to each other's wounds

and not one of us

gets the itch and tickle

to write a word or two

wholly inadequate as witness

but scribed at the moment

of the world,

not above it.

That would be shame.

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not the voice that comes
from the steam

nor the tide that turns
at the drop of a dime 

into a newspaper machine.
not a name that fades in the ear
when you turn a corner

nor a name that comes through the
earpiece of your phone that
rings at the dinner hour.

not a lover who misses you
after all the years in jobs

on a far coast where time zones and
temperatures are closer and hotter

that the hotel sheets
are to the mattress where you stare
at the door to the hallway,
the shadows of feet passing in

the middle of the night,
you wonder what your lover
has to say,
not about this meal you're eating
or by what you're reading

but instead about how you're living
in this world when
nothing seems real enough to
count on as if life itself mattered,

i say all these things come back to us
always in the moments when
we're required to be
the selves we've always rehearsed in

mirrors, at home, imagining interviews
and interrogations,

i think of the way your lips grew puffy
the first time i made you cry,

the way your hand traced the words of
the book you were reading

before setting it down
to dress for openings, dinner,

where ever we might be going,
the masks crack and fall to the floor

when some meaningless phrase is said
and suddenly, powerfully

it’s clenched fists in public places,
the world is removed just then and too loud as well,

it's all those things after all,
every last cough and bottle of beer we balanced
on the fireplace, there's nothing i ever had

that i don't miss, you were everything
in front of me, passing by and gone
like a road sign that couldn’t be read.