pursuit

write a last will:

there are breadcrumbs to be left

under the topaz blue of the oversized sofa,

that passed from one lover to another

a chain of grievances

and fur from new pets

there are old leather volumes in the nook

claimed by siblings

living just above the hole in the floor

caused by a sickly hanging vine

that set the house on fire

when an april storm blew the growlights loose

there are soft pine boards,

oiled down like the deck of a schooner

jib of an attic, covered in soft splinters

and the plastic cleaver

bearing the name 'mona' - her hairbeads, too,

our ghost, we displaced

with the way we talked and were naked in the sun room

write one final song:

there are branches scraping against the spanish tile

the crabapple clawing its way inside memory

the squish of mildewed carpet

in the bathroom

and the overdamped silence, open and waiting,

for a car to come home

the rhythmic turning of a casement window

the sound of paint chipping off beneath a nail

there are clothes slapping against rock

washerwomen on the river bank

soft and carried on warm light

their voices warp and weave around your body

carry you to sleep inside the gatehouse

there are the wheels on the rail

rocking and chugging as you speed to the north

carrying you into the endless day

and out of the distant night

lived this way once

you would live this way twice, again, and better

you would pursue, go in pursuit

of your own desire

make love one final time after a long and permanent goodbye

keep secrets, if only to have inside you

a place where the shadow and light play