Two Poems: Hovering; Stasis

Hovering

With six days to go before the world ends I still need to take
that helicopter ride. To circle
high above the city where you live,
to look for you waving up at me –

I was kidding about the six days.
It’s five.
Kidding again.
The truth is
we have no idea, and if you know anything about uncertainty

you know this is worse. We are hostages in love with our captors,
taking solace
in believing this is a normal reaction to high-stress events.

Birth. Death. Marriage. Or other change in status.

To compensate for infinity we make lists – things to do
before we go.
A recent study revealed helicopter rides were by far

the most universal desire. Yet we think ourselves so original.
The speck down there, fluttering in this direction?
It might be you.
It might be anyone.

 

Stasis

The song, changing. The glance down.
The stopped and stopping traffic.

A haircut, overdue. A flurry of blackbirds:
endless murmuration – pixilated

ripple and wave. You must
get out of your own head. It’s not enough

that the airbag break your nose:
something has to be at stake.

Heave your body to the right.
Work the brakes hard. You are driving south,

away from one girlfriend problem
and toward all the others.

The trajectory bends and halts and skips.
Here’s what you will remember:

the love letter on the passenger seat.
The twisting of your ankle.

Her name on your lips.
The blueberry taste of her breath.

You almost forgot she is left-handed.
Be patient. What’s going to happen

has happened already.
Was happening all along.