He has problems sleeping at night.
Dear. (To a dusty vent,
to the purr of the fridge.
To the gas bill. The electric.)
Dear... he ventures. Are you awake?
Facing the other way, she blinks.
Even she doesn�t recognize her face
in the bathroom doorknob anymore.
2
I used to dream of infinite vision,
shattered peripheries.
Parking lots strewn
with the shopping cart wreckage
of reckless four AMs,
burned-out clutches and overfull ashtrays.
And always that grim punchline of
waking up.
To see only what one wants is to forget what it is to want.
3
I wanted to get lost in my city, I told him,
I wanted to lose my way.
He shook an inert head.
Give it up, he said.
Your sense of direction�s too good.
Again the next night I tried, again failed
somewhere on Jefferson Street not far from 440.
Another night, we all got high and drove across the river:
unfamiliar streetsigns, uninviting neighborhoods lined unevenly with
bungalows and bashed mailboxes.
We tried to get lost. We succeeded.
I wasn�t driving. I wasn�t watching.
I gave directions home.
4
Let�s put on a record, dear.
Let�s put on our clothes, dear.
Let�s not linger too long.
These lots are well-lit.
Too many glances in the rearview mirror.
You�re spread out against the frame of the rear stationwagon window
like some canny Odalisque.
Better watch the road. Where are you taking us?
My eyes on the lanes; my eyes as the lens.
He gives a smile and she gives a thrust;
she�s beginning to learn not to choke on the dust.
5
And you dress all in brown.
You yank your scarf too tightly
and you walk too stoically.
You drink too much gin. Really,
you know you do.
6
Let me take to the airstrips and the rush-hour HOV lanes!
Let me surpass the speed of whomever I think I�m kidding!
to strip the ivory off the keys
to clutch my own elbows
to offer as useless sacrilege
to flagellate the memory
to lay claim and lay waste
to glance aside
to break the bread and feed it to ducks in the rain
to take the wrong route
to care not
to care
to care
to remain
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