April 2

From distant star to this here bar, the me,
the you, where are we now?
...................................................You crumble
your crackers into your soup. You look at me
and I look at the ceiling. I want it to crumble
away, allow some darkness in. Ice makes
small exclamations in our glasses. “But you're
so much older,” you repeat, as if it makes
a difference. “It's nothing. You're beautiful. You're
mine,” even though you look nothing like Alison.
Held vertical by the promises we keep
(never to cheat, never to settle for any hit
other than a perfect bullseye), we keep
aiming and aiming
................................and when the planet hit
the sun, I saw the face of Alison.