I’ve lost the unspendable coin I wore around

my neck that protected me from you, leaving it

bodyhot in the sheets of a tiny bed in Vermont. If you

could be anything in the world

you would. Just last week they found the glass eye

of a saint buried in a mountain. I don’t remember

which saint or what mountain, only

how they said the eye felt warm

in their palms. Do you like

your new home, tucked

away between brainfolds? To hold you

always seemed as unlikely

as catching the wind in an envelope. Now

you are loudest before bed, humming like a child

put in a corner. I don’t mind

much; I have never been a strong sleeper, and often

the tune is halfway lovely. Besides, if I ask you to leave

you won’t. My hands love you more

than me, wanting only to feed you and feed you.

Tonight I outrank them

but wisely you have prepared for famine.

I am trying to learn from all this.

It was you who taught me that if a man

stands in silence for long enough

eventually only the silence remains. Still,

my desire to please you is absolute.

Remember the cold night we spent

spinning on my lawn?

I wore only basketball shorts

and a pair of broken sandals.

I tied my hair back and

laid out a hammer, some rope,

a knife. What I was building was a church.

You were the preacher and I the congregation,

and I the stage and I the cross and I the choir.

I drank all the wine and we sang until morning.