Still remember them, the nights
sick with the pain of watching love fade out.
But gently. Like a Polaroid in reverse.
Like a dimming ruined house
that doesn't exist anywhere anymore.
Sheer devotion is hard to fathom
after you stop wanting to give it, and grow.
I build things, small things with my hands now,
and many. I make love. And how about
another movie? Let that old feeling
stay where the histories go,
let it accrete a dimension of false magnitude
brought on by -- what else? -- time,
And let ancient selves teach love older names,
as holy and forgotten
as these forgotten books of psalms.
You are and I am and it is
as at least as irrelevant and sacred as this
endless summer traffic flowing
beyond these separated windows
every which way and that.