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            Silver-eyed land at the back
            of the mirror, the jagged edge
            of memory:

            while numbered months pass
            in the hall like dumb camels

            and we spin pole
            to pole in passing stupor, attracting,
            two shoulders to

            the door of unseen
            force. Abyssinia was always there,
            in the mind: its towers
            and bare white sand, abandoned

            bodies of women. While behind us
            the lumber of old wounds
            fell back to the edge,
            rattling like traps, like tongues.


                    **

            Up at 3, the old terrors
            sliding into your absence,
            my chest
            a clenched fist above
            the floor.

            In silver of this moonlight
            the backyard opens
            onto alternative terrors
            in the shape of swingsets
            and barbeque grills.

            In fraught frames of window
            and doorway
            I watch myself:
            Peeling eggs & feeding dogs
            at 6 A.M.


                    **
    
            In San Antonio, we came
            together, worlds apart.

            I'd spun so long
            in that black void.

            The constellations
            of the city passed away
            beneath us.
        

                    **

            It's pure image
            that returns to us here, poor
            with intended meaning,
            unwilling to speak.
            
            On simple stones and boards
            set above them,
            we've composed our selves,
            cobbled together workable pasts.
            
            Now expeditions range forth
            from tangled places within us
            towards a clamoring, mapped,
            well-appointed world.


                    **

            Lying in bed with my arm,
            I think of you,
            
            half a globe and lifetime away.

            Leaves toss a handful of shadows
            at the window; wind simmers;

            it's like other times.
            
            Sunlight rips, and settles in sheets
            on the furniture in houses moved away from.

©2002 James Sallis.