Untitled

“Well, goodnight anyway,”

As he struck those words

The sway of the chisel in his hand

As he struck those words

Beneath the hammer and into

The stone of his mind.

(Forever those last three words

Without lust the last things

He said to her)

Then the telephone in its silence.

And before this they had been

To every place.

In staircases.

In narrow hallways.

In green streets hairy with trees.

In shores of saltwater lakes.

In a desert place where nothing grew against

The rust of the colors.

But now arrived here, this emptier

Place at the end of a silent conversation.

Drop the phone. Take a drink.

Well here we are.

With all the time in the world

To make good on things

That were better not.