Far Poles

Melancholy at canvas at two in the morning, will I hope desperately in vain for the creak of floorboards from the far end of the house?

i)
There is no greater distance than between the far poles of our house,
I spinning at one,
while at the other you turn in your sleep, unaware,
every drip of pale tinted water a prayer
(if you can believe I'd believe in prayer).

By the time each makes its way undeniably down the canvas
I've lost you all over again.
Calling is to lose you.
How not to want you?

ii)
Is this how we'll be in the spring,
me sitting spinning at my canvas while the earth slowly turns you
irrevocably away
toward morning,
the time of unravelling?
With each day passing, dawn comes sooner.
One morning it will break before me,
before I can make my journey
across the floor,
through the night into sleep.
One day dawn will find me still weaving
spells among my circles.
Will I be turned into stone?

iii)
Knowing you near me is no consolation
when the distance to be crossed
between your door
and I on the floor
is as great as between the earth's far poles.

4th Act

i)
Motion
out of thinking and into simply
knowing
(by a change in barometric pressure,
though human barometers are known to go awry)
(by an alteration of the light,
what light there is)
(by sickness, by
blood, by
blood)
that we've entered the fourth act.

ii)
'Nothing's changed,'
owl eyed at your guitar you gaze,
sleep-soaked,
ruffled
and furred,
and worried by my calm.

And worried by my calm.

While I know
that in that time apart
a part parted a -
your apartment
lost its valour,
its properties of longing.
In that time apart I ceased to ache
for anything you had to offer.

'Nothing's changed,'
as if by alteration
(Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds)*
I meant a loss, or hurt, or break, baby, break.
You spoke as if accused.
I meant no accusation.
Standing in your doorway,
one foot on the frame,
testing,
resisting,
resting,
I offered only information:

'Something's changed.'

iii)
The windows
in this room are white
outside as well as in,
grimy light
filtered through thin
transparent veils.

iv)
All this morning,
whether by snow, or hunger,
or strange pale light,
passed in a state of wonder
under the sign of:

'May you perish before midnight,
you little whore.'

Orange peels scattered
on blue,
and for once,
standing poised in an outer door,
as my hand entered into
its black leather glove,
it was not about you.

*William Shakespeare, 'Sonnet 116,' in The Works of William Shakespeare (New York: Oxford University Press, 1938), 1239.



4th Act
January 2, 2010
8 1/2'' x 11''
pencil on paper