In An Empty Adjacent Corridor
In an empty adjacent corridor, the light
From the sun, rising over Nashville, steady
And slow, synchronizes underground country.
Movements of my Wednesday night limbs
On a Thursday morning make words worth: slur.
Julia’s twisted up in the bedroom linen.
The power of censorious years
Walks past me with suitcase-tears, last night
I thought I could hear her hair dryer warming up the pipes.
It is winter and in Nashville, the antennas
Broadcast the lonely-sad ballads from Mt. Le Conte.
It is winter and I feel like dying.
In a split level ranch I know, I know
That the wind, whipping around Graham Central Station
Dances up the dust in the searing embrace I call.
Julia. Julia wake up and intrude with me
The solemn mixing of hair and early morning sickness.
Julia, you lie there, twisted, as if you meant it.
Julia, it is winter and in Nashville an empty adjacent corridor
Shies away from the belt buckle and collapses into 1b.