Max Winter
The Consort
New Poems From the USA
 
 

You drift, all of you, towards the nearest door. I listen for alarms. The water in
the sink. The sky may be slipping. We were not meant to be here after dark. I would
like to say I had more bliss to offer, or that I'd set light timers all through the
house. But that is not true. When you stand against the wall, I can make you out.
Your hands are raised, as if you could touch the wood, or stay. You open one eye,
and then another. I would rise to see you out if I were not thinking myself
elsewhere. Nothing is possible without such junkets. Not even the sound in the mind
that brings us together. In my estimation you go too soon. We have not even compared
notes.