Someone’s sister in Europe writing her
adultery poems late night, half bottle
of wine pretty much required.
And they’re good, they really are—
The things one hears in an elevator.
Perfect strangers. I’ve always loved
the perfect part, as if news of the world is
a matter of pitch, and pure.
Maybe the desire of others only
simplifies me, seems generous that way.
It’s the distance, an intimacy
so far from here I get to float invisible
all over, over again like I never
lived this life. What could be
lonelier, more full of
mute ringing than what
she’s writing. That,
and the wine. Thus we pass the minutes,
ground to five, then six. And the door opens
because someone else pressed
the button first.
All along, dark and light
take turns falling to earth.
And the sister
having sipped from a glass
and left behind such small shocks
is no doubt
asleep by now. I forget, given
the time change.