We slept with the doors open one more night.

And now when I try it alone it does not feel the same.

Something about time when it’s right there in front of you

disguised as a person. A person disguised as a voice

at the end of its reach. A photo booth strip.

You’re more material to me than a house

and I haven’t felt much of the weather living inside.

Rain on a mouth. Fingers in dirt.

I wish I had the mind of an orchid or sky.

A childhood beach when it’s cold yet not late in the year.

I am leaving you there with the shirts and the shoes thrown about,

waiting to be retrieved by the people who’ve given them use

and aren’t done slapping their bodies against the sea.

Nothing has come to impress me. We leave.

Thrown in the blue of the wet afternoon

where no one can stay without being bled;

we, who are so full of blood.

I am watching you make all the lights.

The Madonna swings across the dashboard,

her face does not change.

And whether it’s the mountains of New Mexico

or the streets in this city of lack,

we are driving in the easy silence

of people who do not yet know

what they’ll take from each other.

This is the shortest part of the drive,

the part that won’t photograph well but seems real.

Soon we’ll be stopping at a gas station and a pool

and a diner where no one will eat.

No matter the places I’ve taken my clothes off

I always keep one thing on. One.

One of us. Asking for more than what’s ours.