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
