There was that night I drove home and saw you seated
on the patio overlooking the San Francisco Bay,
the lights twinkling above it, all spread before us like a galaxy.
Then your hand waved a small hello and pointed to the chair
beside you, unable to speak, your ears so fastened to the radio voice
and then I heard the UFO talk and shot you a disdainful look
and walked away. That was a time when you would have loved
me to say, yes, to sit with you and listen to the radio and speculate
about Area 55 with cups of brandy in our hands, feeling the night
press on our backs, the sweet tingling mix of fear and gratitude.
But that was not the last time I said no to you
and I cannot remember the last time I said yes, really and truly, yes!
--that "hurl myself through a pane of glass" kind of yes
that I could say right now, if only you were here.
I could hurl myself into the stars, into whatever else is up there,
to say yes with such fervor, to hear what you heard on the radio
and talk with you about unlighted stars and aliens who
bear witness to our doomed vivacity.
I could learn secrets that might help us now.