What It Was

It was not quite
an unloved plastic toy
left in the humpy grass
through snows, and ice, and sun, and rain
thinning and brittling
to a faded dreary orange, dreary blue

It was a little bit like
touching your lips
to a full bottom lip
a high cheekbone
a temple
a sweep of soft and delicious hair
but not really. Not really.

It was more like
a photograph of
a pretty braid
echoing a hairline
right past the curve of a truly delicate
pretty ear
and just the suggestion
of a smile, all contained, all veiled

so trite. just a detail.

It was more like the fallacy
of a yellow scarf
worn to cover a head
or wrap a neck
on a misting day. No one
actually likes a yellow scarf. No one
falls for it
anymore.

It was the salt sea air
that comes in
in the evening
and surprises you. That air
has a body
and a mass
and a movement of its own. It visits you. Then
it leaves.

It was a long slug of gin
and then laying down on the sidewalk

why get up? why get up at all?

It was understanding
exactly
about one of sixteen vessel virgins
leaving for the coast
and stars falling
all along the injured coast
and everything
having to do with coasts.

It was telling a few small lies.

It was skipping a beat.

It was the inscrutable goodbye touch
of two pads
of two fingers
to a warm third eye.

Still
peck peck
and an outie of a tripod appears
then a hole
then the whole thing comes apart
from will alone. A long and thin
neck weakly rises
but rises
and seeks
and opens

bright yellow
rimming with orange
blind-eyed
and naked

entirely patient
worse than hopeful
simply expectant

of what good will come.