STORY ARC

 

 

Knowing him made her

want to organize

herself

into narrative

coherence

 

because organized movement

like a storm system’s is

like water’s

loops—

masculine.

 

So the counters

got scrubbed

in the story

and his bags

aromatic, coherent.

 

The grey den wanted to be opened

to light, the light

in his bedroom

couldn’t reach even

his den.

 

The man the woman

adopted, cleaned,

thought:

I misplaced

an opening?

 

I can’t see

or tell the speed

past     

or has the road’s

dirt stopped?

 

Maybe

to make

the past

dust shapely

hanging

 

in place

would be

(closet,                        

chimney!)

formal. 

 

Each: I am both

painting of plains

and settled

dust

of closet.

 

He was

a house, she was

a car—

her body

could be driven.

 

And the mattress

around their minds was

a map’s

land

and ocean.

 

Who needs freedom—our

world’s room’s

warmth’s

press

calms.

 

The trees want

the wind laid

down on them like a heavy hand

to be relaxed

with force.

 

What is

my own mind,

wind

down

on my head?

 

Look at this

bigness,

look at all

this

mattress!

 

They lived. From then on,

each ate

but

didn’t

digest

 

dust.  He dragged

a dark

reserve.

She was a helicopter

over their story.