My trunk is full of shopping bags including a bounty in shoes that I bought from my niece who manages the shoe department at the local mall and told me that patent leather is hot this year, and I’m hurrying home on the interstate because my dog gets surly when I leave him too long in the utility room, and the sky is so haunted with rain wanting to fall that it is violet grey feeling like November not October, but hot, so I turn up the air so it’s cold because I wish I weren’t in Hillsborough but Westchester where just around the corner on the 9W there would be a stone fence curving inward and houses off the highway greeting the road with rows of pumpkins and traffic is backed up so I get off on Fowler and backtrack Morris Bridge wanting something more out of this Friday than desire candled by evening shade, but I don’t enjoy hanging out in bars anymore because I’m tired of pretending to be someone who I can’t be and no one else is who they think they are, so I’m relieved when they quit calling, which means that my slick red shoes grow dust and everywhere dust moves on ahead and the sky will never rain.
I’m nowhere near finished with grading the poems when I lock up my room for the night. It’s almost eleven. Somewhere another door slams. The space between lockers swells with a draft whose source is unknown. It carries the scent…
When you’re in love
anywhere’s a bed.
When you kiss me, the distance peels
her fingers from the south,
shoves hemispheres into my mouth.