If, by in dreams, I find you
in the rubble, in the Dresden
of this state,
if, by my hours, you are
the one with the stubbled jaw,
nearly touching a truth I live by,
if, by the inky latent dawn, I am
hung by my desires; your hands, my
noose, on this bright guillotine morning,
if, by some deeper burrowing, you
come to me, cupped in the cup I’ve poured,
stuck as stuck can be, with me,
you can trust: it was not just in dreams
I hunted you. Not just there, in murk, in muck.
It was also during the whip-crack brightness of
mid-day. It was during the clarity, the care, of our soberest hours.