Light, A Little Clarity

I’m not sure what it was we hated but I needed to hate it

so we went and did it together.

Me, I wanted to accelerate thickly like

heavy trucks when they carry

                        empty cargo containers that flail

even under ropes and tie-downs.

I wanted you to take a grain of this back to the lab,

take a tall drag

off this one here and hand it back gently, see.

I wanted you

to tell me about the stench of lake water

            drying up on the dock and how when we walked

barefoot on concrete the road stretched

away from us so far

it made us promise something unreasonable.

I wanted you to remind me of the wind picking up

            quickly from beneath its thunderhead

and the snow coming in at all angles.

All angles.

Light, a little clarity. All day

            I wait for the damn thing to disappear,

so we might feel a little better

about the way every liquor standing back there

reminds us of someone in particular. I wait patiently

to compare lists, to point out

the NY Police Academy students

who have given up jaywalking, but in their eyes

want it badly like we have it — want it, you will say,

            like a boy on the A train

with an awkward arm around his girl, terrified if

            he’s doing it right,

terrified to let go.