In the light of our preceding conversations—
those husky, coffee-laden strings of observations
on the nature of the human condition—
we naturally collapsed into bed together,
your face tinted and slanted like a Picasso
and mine tendered by the green shadows of night,
brooding into some sort of black solution
like an Edward Hopper: your favorite.
We woke up separated by a mountain range
of quilts. Outside, Hispanic men in orange overalls
stood on cranes with electric saws
that split through fallen trees. One of them
was smoking, and I know you despise that smell
(saw it by your face, tomato-squeezed, left to dry)
even though the only thing that wasn’t filtered
by the window screens was a blanket of sawdust,
that fusty pine scent rising up in clouds from our laps.
We tried to walk outside barefooted
but the sap gummed to our heels.
In the shower, I asked you if, when they die,
humans emit such beautiful smells.
Suddenly the ceiling fell and killed you.
Your body looked like Guernica,
bruised in black and white, agonized, tumultuous.
I only smelled the cigarette smoke
that streamed from the wrecked roof, the man
gaping over us like a bird over its prey,
the leaves of the branch he just sawed off
slapping against the bathroom tiles.
I looked like Nighthawks: face immersed
in the black light, concealed by it; just another traveler,
just another hungry soul on the brink of light.
