That sly motherfucker
promises me a sober relief
as he feeds me my own heart.
Say those pretty things to me again
that got me to turn left instead of right in the dark
steering by his sure confidence,
even though he’s never driven past the fork.
Promise me again
that two thoughts will become one,
and I’ll carry the stranger’s voice
like a friend to keep me warm.
We wrestle the way gods do,
crushing the hills, falling through the clouds,
and finally I catch hold of him
my foot against his neck, pressing:
so say your fucking words again –
And he says:
when one hand catches the other,
there will be no time to catch breath,
to find the peace that comes with autumn,
just this embrace,
when you realize the man you were chasing
was already dead.