Ghost Limb

It seems ridiculous, but I can feel
phantom fingers tickling my thigh.
That sensation on my skin’s so real,
I reach out for your hand. Don’t ask me why

I reach for you. I am a lunatic
for dwelling on your presence in this way—
way past the time of your departure. It
must be nerves playing tricks. Nerves love to play.

Everything suggests you’re here right now.
Everything beyond my leg is numb,
calm, relaxed, like after laughter. How
infectious some good memories become:

golden, green, then gangrenous. I’m sure
I should have cut your arm off.

I am sure.

At The Window

For Gavin

Vision is an act of will.
The blind may feel more features on
on a face than you or I
can see. Astronomers have
mapped a hundred billion stars
invisible to human eyes
in different kinds of light.

This morning, guided by a dull
and distant glow, I raised my
window blinds for the millionth time
thinking the logistics through
from the perspective of John Donne:
he’s half a planet away and no
closer. What is my dick to do?

The local universe hadn’t changed
much overnight: the oak leaves
outside seemed a little crispier,
the children’s coats a little puffier,
the people walking quicker—where-
ever they were going—work,
school, some appointment, home.

Still, the position of that bright
gray glob—the sun—reminded me
that—although geographically
Maui and New York might lay
exactly the same distance
apart on maps—your ass also

was twenty-four hours closer.
Even more, perhaps.

Red Eye

For Gavin


Your e-mail says the alcohol
Left you tipsier than usual:
It’s made me kind of sad. Beer
Can have that odd effect. It’s weird.

We’re both a bit hammered, unfit
To operate a car, forklift,
Or hearse. Whatever. So we drink
More as we attempt to shrink

Great distances to cans and glasses.
Later, as the Pacific passes,
We yawn, we burp, get up to pee,
Look down. Back to square one. Why me?

I hear a plane descend the sky
Above La Guardia. I try
To sleep. I can’t. I masturbate—
Shoot twice. No help. It’s four. Too late

To call. I drift off to a dream,
A flight domestic in its theme.
I see a man stand at a door,
Searching for keys. On the floor

Luggage: one heavy bag, one light.
He finds his keys. (Pants pocket, right.)
I hear a massive deadbolt click.
Me, I am lying on my stomach,

Naked, warm, my legs a “V,”
And hard again—evidently
Quite delighted he is here.
I pull the covers from my rear,

Eyes closed. I feel him slip a hand,
Between my cheeks. You understand,
It’s really you. That’s why I groan,
“Better late than never, prick.”