Chandelier

How gorgeous that moon—
a dazzling chandelier!  


Easy to forget its truth:
 

A land without air—

not at all a
 better world —

it would kill me
 given half a chance.  



I never tire of it.


Every full moon, half moon--any phase of it--feels 

new and gay, lighting my nights, 

counting my days.



I see myself bouncing in its spiky dust.  


Eyes fixed on earth below—


that gorgeous palace! 

The shock of seeing home

alone in that empty awesome black


would change me.


Years after, while brushing my teeth, that memory 

would assail me—blue earth circling

 in the ink of infinite sleep. 

It would stop my pulse. The mystery of it.


The total mystery of it. 

Nothing left to do

 There is a pointlessness to it: walking 

into your old bedroom each morning.

I don’t want to make too much of it—

you’re a man now— designed 

to move on. 

But every morning I open your blinds

and the sun lifts up 

over the hill outside your window 

and casts a melted butter hue 

that transforms your window 

into a theater screen, of sorts, 

and though you’ve been gone 

more than a year, I like to lean against 

your bedroom door 

to catch the flick--a trailer really,

content to play in this room only-- 

about those everyday moments—

nothing too dramatic—

your stuffed Barney, forts made from sheets, 

an overstuffed suitcase for summer camp, 

the box of condoms under the bed—

jumbled days all, but that movie 

can move me to tears.  

And there’s nothing left to do now

but watch the movie play —

life means letting go, letting 

every single thing go.