When the actor’s voice retreated, he stood before the mirror
noting birdlike minutiae of his head and neck:before opening his mouth to recite whether tis nobler
in the mind, the jaw rolled forward like a drawer.Flesh at the nape gathered in pleats, as if a hem preparing
to be pinned, at the breath drawn before a whisper.Maria tells me this as she presses the valley of my back
to keep my walk from breaking into falls. Afteraustralopithecus, rising from our fists, could we end
our argument with gravity?Perhaps with time, I could become one of earth’s
beloved satellites: kept close, but just outsidethe zone of true belonging. But for now, each step’s
a bargain with my feet to take my weight. Maria says,let the ground touch you back.
Years later, her husband becomes one of thosewhose heart loses a bet
just as the mulberries go sick-sweet in late June.Her neighbors call to share their faith
in popular mechanics: God behind the lock-rail,butterfly-made hurricanes. Such drafty comfort, I think,
is no place to sleep out a poor harvest.From my new city where I ride the trains alone,
bridges’ gradual splendor always wrecking me,I watch in the mirror of the moon
as a face unfolds, tries to speak a sentence. No scenery,not even stars behind. The world seems
to lose its voice: on a racetrack’s polyurethanemy limbs arrange themselves in the sign
for mourning. Around me, runners’ muscles knit,unknit. Watch the vertebrae that count themselves
on waking. The pebbles of the wrist. The slow collagen hingesopening the wingspan, moving us across
our only theater.