Poetry • Alex Dimitrov
This late and it seems they’ve been everything.
The low light of the lobby spreads out like a day.
What are the windows for you? What are the dead-end streets?
I would give you these relics unprompted, without doubt—
but even a strand of hair needs to be looked at and carried and changed.
Watch the man on the balcony settle into his life.
All winter I’ve done it. And I would be venom
then fire, a true unpaid actor. I do not care to be air.
At Coney Island, on the first of each January
people take off their clothes and watch the Atlantic make room for them.
Even if it was for the obvious beauty—the sentence began—
even if it was all the money and fame.
Who’d ask to stay?
In London Robert is cutting an apple with only his eyes.
The world (yes) is turning. It’s like a fast date.
And in the cab’s silence I’m loud but not talking,
less young than expected. Less ready or sane.
On that Tuesday (a midtown billboard
in the graceless morning) all but an X had gone out
and so flickered. Stating the nothing without fear or blame.
In London Robert is closing his eyes by letting his hair grow.
So much blond falling over his wrists.
An earthquake. Another reversal. Do answer.
Are you often surprised with yourself?
Because even here in my body
I waited outside like a stray. Perfect day then
what did you tell me: 8:39 when the sun sets,
5:21 up again. “Oh, but you would,
it’s too like you to miss it.”
Become less and flee more—that’s us.
We’re those people.
Catching each other just barely but pleased.