he is less cynical than one would suppose
given his history of mistreatment.
He tests the ground for solidity
then stands in his place.
Having survived in solitude,
he is certain of God but prays alone.
He searches in kisses
for some connection,
not noticing
she wants to read his eyes.
Waking without pleasure.
Loving arms reach towards him,
but the world is cold for him,
by habit.
He is ready to work
not to play
and watches, vigilant
against the coming day.
She shrinks
with fragile breath
bolstered by a long silver cord,
as if connected to heaven.
God makes oxygen machines.
She says bye
but my stomach says
wait,
and I wonder when I return
if she'll be here.
Empty space
will wave to me.
A hurricane
with a magnitude of years.
And the richter scale of sobs
will be shooting off the charts.