incolsolation | blueshift

INCONSOLATION

There used to be different words here,

a lawn with benches, a statue of wind.

This is where your hand would go, my

shoulder, a good laugh. We shared

a sixth sense of humor, that is,

we always knew what the dead found

funny: calendars, money, an informed

opinion. Now the birds sing like

car alarms. The bees just want out.

You can push the night around

with your tongue. We do.

We go to the café and order a bed.

We ask for curtains, a notebook, then

blow on our cups without drinking,

blow away. Say, How long’s it been?

When’s it gonna’ be soon? What

we wouldn't give for what we gave.

And this is when the dead start

laughing, when you and I decide

to keep waiting. Let tomorrow cool

awhile, until we’re two other people.

They’ll know if we’re inconsolable.

They’ll know how to drink lying down.