the bed

the bed is not
made where
they laid last night,
the covers holding
the passions like
air in the lungs
and i stand there
in a state of staring.

the next morning
came, of course,
the next conversation
over coffee came,
the next movement
around each other came.

i remind myself
of my worst self,
how the fullness of
life evaporates into
sin sometimes.

my lover and her
lover here in
this epic solitude;
i smell their serious
versions.

and i pretend to
not play with
pretense as the
light of the day is
shunned by a
drawn curtain.

or the bags on
the floor hold
within them the
story of another
calling.

or the carpet
upon which their
bare feet have
padded echoes
with secretive sounds.

or the pillows
dance askew and
and say the words
said in the balance
or counter-balances.

or the empty
bottle bans me
from tasting the
salt of lips.

this is a church
in its magnificent
silence and towering
prayers said in the dark.

what is so
unrecognizable
here?
the tangible is
not a metaphor
any more than
the river is when
i stand in it
up to my knees.

it is an
object to action
separation, really;
it is holding
no new hand,
kissing no new
lips, it is swallowing
no new windy word.

it is a bed
in a quiet room
and harbors no ill
will toward light
or dark; holds
no malice toward
head or heart.

i leave less
grieved and walk
among Douglas firs
and bowed birches
that have looked
down upon these
lovers with no more
affection and gratitude
than they do for me.

and in the bed
the covers remain
and the world outside
is moving and the next
morning came, of course,
the next conversation over
coffee came, the next
movement around each
other came.

with me.