CLOSING TIME

I am closing my eyes, because I can’t see it in the dusk,

the poem that is already there.

I am hearing the closing time bickering of noisy miners

and I am getting massages from the magpies tuning up.

I am hoping I can learn something from the heavy storm clouds

that are content for now to veil the moon in lavender.

Am I cheating the woman who laps her head across my legs?

Your gaze is distant and grey from the morning sickness and the fear.

I palm your hair and find one, then two, then a third grey hair

and I feel weary, like my life just got added to yours.

And I wonder if you’re thinking about how our lives will change. But you aren’t –

you are hoping the new lemon tree will grow.

Perfection only deals in moments, and for a perfect moment,

I got dealt the card reading: You are not God.

But I’m hoping to God now that I can slouch as slow as the storm clouds

and stand my ground like the sapling outside my window.

Or else go mad, spinning and clicking

like cicadas do to welcome in the dark.