It is so late it is early, and there, once again, is that thrilling and disturbing bird of dawn, its four notes, one two THREE, four climbing a little way up into the future and back down, and once again everything that’s mine is in a rental truck or in the future.
The end of romance was what the teenage girl
was telling you about on a bench in the Jardin
in San Miguel de Allende, giving you T.M.I.,
but you realized she might need a Father who is not in heaven.
She gasps: Tinder is even sleazier in Mexico, how could it be nostalgic? You listened, like your poems do when you write
them down in the cafes of Kerouac’s time here. You are Angelico
Americano with Instagram—troubled children of your own back home.
I am beginning to think about the middle, and how we should behave in it. When I say you held me closer than clouds hold birds you tell me it was coincidence we slept at all. Of course I want it to stop. I dream every night of a man with the head of a man and the body of a scary sea creature. I dream the man is lost so I carry him home. Of course I mistake water for home and home for water but at least, I try.