Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1991 |

Tonight

Now that I've gone through the good reasons To be elsewhere the pacts are harder to come by; Each night the empty lots enlarge, trouble Shifts, and I try to remember I too once insisted On risk. Headlights pass over the sleeping; a manIs next door, softly knocking to ask her please, To let him in, to lean over in his dark suit until She takes the rough tobacco hands and says yes. On his knees he swears never to drink again. I turn back And climb into the eaves of this house While someone who once loved me every nightIs somewhere on a plane heading toward a city. It has become A matter of suspecting the unexpectedUntil you learn to wait for it, Patient as history, like here in the quick shelter Of rented room light making myself believe Work is important enough to keep from goingThrough yet another series of acts I want to call love, the glowing clock ticking Until I hear my name, until familiarity is so perilousI am aching with random facts, like a sleeping man,

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