You ask me what I am thinking
through the static phone line, your syllables
reaching the vacancies between my ribs
like they always do.
I say, Nothing much, really,
like I always do–
words falling short of truth,
lips inept of forming the precise words
to mean I am thinking of everything.
And what I mean by that
is I am thinking of what kind of shampoo she uses
and whether or not she observes you
tying your shoes past midnight
as if she were witnessing instead
the genesis of Light–
God Almighty crafting all we can see
with his bare hands– and yours
looping the white strings together, pulling tight
and around again.
And I am thinking
of whether she writes poems
about how the strands of your hair invented
the color gold itself
or whether you take her to lie down
in empty fields, under gray skies
and cold autumnal breezes, and how
all of this is neither jealousy nor desire,
does she pray for you?
Would she even die for you?
But I say, Nothing much, really,
remembering what it was like to be her,
and let the dream fall to its death.