Portrait of Myself on a Day Without Birds 
Without Anything Answering, 
Signed Steven

I anticipated
almost everything to the minute. The sound
of foreign feet. At my door, my name. Every 
click, hurrying to end the hour. It works 
wonders to breathe belief
in your sleep. Apples in the freeze. 
White nights switching this 
to that. Your December, my New 
Year. A plate set out. My mornings fell
somewhere between where I thought 
I belonged and where I might find 
myself alone, desperate and wild, silently
speaking everything in my head. You know 
stars turn out to be nothing 
but stars, dead by the time they get here,
dead by the time they get here, old 
light. You wouldn’t believe
the meetings I’ve made with the sky. Night upon night,
God, the rain is loud sometimes. But my shirt
is pressed. I put a shoe on, it fits. I’ve made myself
walk hours, gray on gray--hard
to wear yourself everywhere you go. In this
crows are perfectly always themselves. The weather
won’t move, that’s okay. Even today
I’m clean, in the mirror
ready to arrange myself one last time, for 
good. This gun looks good on me. My country’s
colors, the lines on my face are all
in the right direction. God knows,
I’ve tried. In another minute you’ll see
the window I stood in, toss a cigarette
lighter across the room. Whatever 
it is you’re saying is quiet like a prayer
only you can hear--thankful, anticipating 
a long night of sleep. Like me, almost 
out of here.

Near the Flashing Sign There Are Legs, 
Looks Like New Shoes, Your Color 

My return was never meant to be 
a burden. My story, of course, 
isn’t without cause. And its own history--its habits 
twisted into fate: a cup 
of water left on a nightstand, your 
shirt, here, with the smell of your sleeping body, 
by the window, a sudden music 
from the clock radio. Your time. 
And something always to give back. 

Whatever words kept me 
perfectly certain I had something 
to tell you are gone. But between each place, 
real or imagined, there is a midnight. 
Your hand knows its way in this 
territory. This is a wild silence, the moon 
pressed to the pillow, your breath caught between 
now and next. Every brink carried off by a kiss 
of wind in the window. It’s rain
that eases its sound around all of this. 

I’m sure happiness might plunge through 
for the sake of itself. Before I slip out 
toward the invention of measured paths 
I want to take my time remembering 
you are beautiful. In the part where the frame falls 
away from us and all that scatters is air, I believe 
the light is meant as a call 
to look. That’s when you leave. 

That’s when everything after this names itself. 
That’s when the room inside my eyes is overcome 
by the ordinary surprise of a face looking back.