A Few Minutes Before Midnight

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Your high-riser carapace lops off
and shatters at your feet;
your mind unreeling under the back-
drop of all your leaps and falls,

I see you drop
a few last words or warnings of
such staggering finality:
“that is it, that is all.”

A certain map, these words
lead me in your directions,
on your exhausted strut
that I almost hear
scrape the floor behind.

Just last night I was learning
about reticence and plugs in the earth
from where the deluge came running between us
and now I’m checking to see
if my backdoor is unlocked.
Some door or the other we always leave ajar,
subtle as intent.

each day or two
you slip your pieces into the aperture,
little ciphers thick and deep
as quicksand drifting up my knees –

the slow pull
is how you do it.