We meet in this country. Beneath the damp light
at the world-famous fair, where life is meaningful
and dreadful. The conglomerates show off their
wares, which will help us when we’re sick of work
and heading for the train. I hate to be alone.
The solitude of Brooklyn. But outside, now framed
by the window, a couple. They stare at one another
over pork chops and beer. I call you on the telephone.
I call to hear your muffled voice. "People aren’t
the be-all and end-all of one another’s lives," you say.
Between these tender hemispheres, in the space
of our gender, the divine reaches down like a hook.
Must it be such a hardship, then, to hoist ourselves
up to the conscious interior? Are we so cleanly spoken,
here, that all has been said by two bodies, alone
in the dark, their brains electrified? Their tongues
in one another’s mouths?