A Twilight with No Stars Under the Roof of Heaven

Let me tell you a story that has an end. And the end may surprise
You (as it has me). This is the story: I walked two lands, one in twilight
And one in light (how light I cannot say, but you may know my meaning).
And in that walking, I found a plant. I ate the plant as I was hungry,
But had no way of knowing at the time whether or not
It was good for me. I'm sorry for that generalization: I didn't know
If it was edible or poisonous.

And guess. It was poisonous--well it didn't kill me.
As they say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
That's the saying anyway.

I had a used car, full of holes. I plugged all the holes
And it appeared broken the next day much to my dismay.
Okay, okay--yeah, you've heard this story before.
What can I say? I'm redundant? That would be too simplistic.
I'm unoriginal? Who's original? Hear this: two sparrows
Swept out of a cloud-bearing heavy rain
Ready to converge on the village, on the town, on London.
Why London? London is know for rain internationally
(but so is Seattle and...well...maybe
Portland--or only nationally) and I could go on,
And guess: I will anyway much like the pavement
With a yellow stripe stretching down the highway
With the cacti bending over or standing immobile
Into the bushes, and the steppes, and the sky--into eternity.

O eternity! What scary shit that is! Now we are talking
About faith and religion and all those things that many
Pay no attention. Not many I know "at least." And why think about it?
It's a lot to stomach and no one can take too much.
We turn on the TV, we pick up the phone, we take a drive
And look at the scenery or buy an RV.

Okay, okay--Chloe, you lost me. Can you start again, please?
I am hard of hearing and your voice so low,
So full of shaking, unsure, or gentle--please repeat,
You lost me and I could lie and make a response
As I am in my own reality and cannot respond properly,
So I make an end, pickup the shovel and turn the dirt
Slowly, slowly--and then...I am shaking. But I see
The sun still and I know it's position and I know the time
With no watches, and the midwife in the shadowed corner
Washes her hands, her back turned to us.
But we. We can still see her, dressed as she is
In her unadorned clothes. The light from the window
Above her still still streaming in, still aligning us
To where we see her from, from where we are.

And now I am going to go have a smoke, a cigarette.
You know how it works, I'm sure you do, much as I do.
But that could be later--or sooner, but caught in that rain
That loomed so low, so comforting, so promising
To cover the rest of the day in magazines, in buttons,
Or--better yet--in conversation. O those ears
Thirsty for Chloe's words, those words heard so poorly.

I've brought Chloe back from the dead, you know.
She's at home and I am standing at her tombstone, in the graveyard,
And lots of it. Yes, lots of it. A train, a train.
It buzzes by fitfully, and I go to board it. I've taken the flowers,
Not having left them at Chloe's grave because I have left her alive
Waiting for the delivery, cooking stroganoff in the kitchen.
What's the date, where's the calendar, did you write it into your history?
Did you crave the meaning and forget the reading?
London hangs in fog after the passing of the rain,
A yellow taxi passes buy us on gray streets--we've never been there,
But that "is another story left told for another day."

Chloe turns to stare momentarily out the kitchen window,
A small window to the right of the bay enclosure, the coming rain;
Her hand moves the knife, cuts the flesh and then she looks away back to her reality.

She wants to understand this thing, she doesn't want the dinner
To hang in an environment built out of words that gloat angrily.