Shane McCrae
In Favor Of Tarrying
New Poems From the USA
Next week will be the last time we did anything.
Remember that. Our bodies made a fitful page
together. Did we, dear, take the right kind of notes?
What if we want to build a thing again, or this?
What if we want to live this way again? The end
is always underrated. It’s the only place
they’ll let you stay. You know, they rent the room to dogs,
and when the doghouse up and leaves its boards behind,
nobody bats an eye—nobody could. An eye
isn’t the sort of thing the dark would be afraid of.
Marine life? Maybe. Your eyes? Yes—your eyes were what
the dark was fretting about last night, scratching its ear,
leaning in close to sniff the milk. We are the reds
the sun drags like a train, to marry in that country.