The deep water in the travel poster finds me 
In the change as I was about to back away 
From the idea of the comedy around us— 
In the chairs. And you too knew how to do the job 
Just right. Trumpets in the afternoon 
And you first get down to business and 
The barges disappear, one by one, up the river. 
One of them must be saved for a promise, But no, 
The park continues. There is no space between the leaves.

Once when there was more furniture 
It seemed we moved more freely not noticing things 
Or ourselves: our relationships were wholly articulate 
And direct. Now the air between them has thinned 
So that breathing becomes a pleasure, an unconscious act.

Then when you had finished talking about the trip 
You had planned, and how many days you were to be away 
I was looking into the night forests as I held 
The receiver to my ear, replying correctly 
As I always do, to everything, having become the sleeper in you.

It no longer mattered that I didn’t want you to go away, 
That I wanted you to return as quickly as possible 
To my house, not yours this time, except 
This house is yours when we sleep in it. 
And you will be chastised and purified 
Once we are both inside the world’s lean-to. 
Our words will rise like cigarette smoke, straight to the stars.