Part I: People Say They Are in Love

A porch swing — dimly lit by yellow light

from a broken fixture supporting half

a broken nest of a starling or a junco

and with moths crusted inside the incomplete

glass casing with relatives still mourning with

rhythmic slammings which sound simple

with desire only implied like her fingers

tapping on the window waking me from my slump

in the driver’s seat that evening I tried to leave

but found the gravel in the drive to be too wicked

and the stars too dangerously close to look away from

their clown patterned glare through my tear

patterned stare which moved slowly from the stars

to the retarded, flame-yellow coming from the porch light

shining if not thickly dripping or pouring

down onto the swing which is still a swing

when it is still — just sits there, and when I turned the ignition

I knew I still loved.

Part II: Other Than That They Are

My car didn’t start.

I knew my tears well.

Behind the glare,

outside in the air of the porch light

dripping moths outside my window

was her face, I wondered whether smeared

or sneered with rot in hell

and make-up still pretty.

She tapped again, shaky

less simple than before.

My nostrils flared.

My eyes, puffy, opened wide cried

help me, leave me, I can’t go.

My car won’t start.  I knew my

tears well.  I cracked my knuckle

on the handle before I began

to roll the window down.  Clownish,

her face drooped and ran down.

The make-up made patterns

like children’s chalk drawings in the rain.

The wind picked up the edge of her hair.

A little flare and her bangs clung half clasped

around her stare and hung

in the mud of her cheek.

Could I taste the weather changing,

and then a creak — a short one.

She dropped her hand

lightly on the door

over the thin black lips

that smeared the glass going down.

The wind was new, and then a creak —

a small one.  The yellow lit porch swing

swelled forward a bit

and fell back.  I dropped my head

to her hand and touched it.