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Midnight finds me counting threads
In the thousand-count Egyptian cotton
A satellite in a cold bed
Orbiting a thought I've forgotten
Your breath is even a tide gone out
Leaving this vast salt-empty space
I'm a museum of want of doubt
With a “Do Not Touch”on my face
And the air conditioner hums a hymn
To a perfect constant seventy degrees
Of nothing touching the skin
Just the memory of a breeze…
It’s a dry spell in a gilded cage
Dust settling on the minimum wage
Of affection that we trade
Every syllable carefully made
It’s a drought where the river’s paved
With good intentions deeply saved
And I’m cracking like the paint
On a saint’s forgotten face
A dry dry spell
Your phone face-up now a shallow well
Glowing with a blue indifferent light
Casting stories I shouldn’t tell
Myself in the dead of night
I could reach across the canyon spread
Between us just six inches deep
But my hand turns to lead
Fearing the vigil it must keep
To ask is to admit the rain
Is missing To name the weather
Is to make it real a stain
On the “forever”and “together”…
It’s a dry spell in a gilded cage
Where the thirst don’t show with age
It gets polished rearranged
Into something sophisticated and strange
A collection of beautiful dust
A quiet reciprocal rust
And I’m listening for a crack
But the silence pushes back
A dry dry spell
The rain…I dream in gallons
In cold bursts on hot pavement
In the smell of it frantic and alive
I dream of a flood so careless and loud
It would wash the gold clean off
Leave the bars raw and brown
I’d drink from a puddle in the ground
I’d drink from a puddle…
So I lie here a landscape in arrears
A calendar of numbered rainless years
The faucet in the hall drips a perfect steady not
And the want…
The want becomes the thing I’ve got
A dry spell
A gilded plot
