the stage

at the edge of creamy carpet are a woman’s

shoes, stillettos mostly, and one pair that

belongs to a man, untied and placed

next to each other, and as she revisits this

in her mind she wishes she would have

paid attention to the direction the toes of his had pointed, but

has an idea about that even though rewind can never

be hit in this life and if it could it would tell

a different story every time

and two cups with straws

and a drive-thru bag are litter on the table

and on the table too a pair of his pants, a sweater, and

a shirt are folded neatly and stacked by keys, a watch,

and an empty ring, and as she revisits this in her mind she realizes the

implication in her application of the word empty,

but next time,

the story may be different

and in the bedroom a woman’s clothes

are strewn across the floor, tangled

in blankets and floor pillows.  i’m not wearing them

and won’t need them quickly or

any time soon and with our eyes open we face each other,

with my eyes open i watch you, 

listen to you ask, “what about mon--”

and wonder at this weird miracle

of how you can fall asleep mid-sentence, with

such fearlessness, like a kitten asleep with its

belly exposed

and the fan chain dangles and clicks with the

rhythmic swirl of the blades, the sound

suggesting a clock, but not a clock,

and precise time is not the actual moment anyway

which is to say between us only some promises are necessary,

and you will waken soon just as quickly as you slept 

and you will leave, and in each today

the exact present exists just at the inside edge

or maybe just at the outside edge of

enough