Away from the noise, I tell a man (who I’ll later sleep with)
about the time I tried to recreate a dream
with acrylic paint and a dollar store canvas.

He asks to see. I tell him it’s long gone, buried in some landfill
in some city, where some old birds hover,
picking at the best of the dead for dinner.

.

Have you ever considered holding onto things like that?

No, and I don’t think I will.             You’re stubborn.

Tell me a story.                    I can’t.

Oh?             Too many martinis.

.

In her dying years, my mother would call at the worst hours.

Think 2PM on a Tuesday.

Once, she told me about how when she was a girl,
she’d go to the field behind her house when she couldn’t
sleep. She’d bring a blanket and watch for stars.

.

Back within the noise, I put my hand on the man’s thigh.
A finger brushes a zipper. Look here, I say.

These rings on the coffee table are how I measure time.

Yes. And the snow, and the Virginia pine, and
the red bird who, when the air is still, moves.