Bodega | Blink

for Saskia

I disagree with the forlorn lovers in the film
we watched together, parted by an ocean, they don’t

share the same sky. When we talk, you and I,
the static grows thick after an hour or so of holding

the phone in place; my ear begins to ache.
The trees lean closer to better hear me speak.

Standing on the cemetery steps, I’m alive and alone,
murmuring across water. Above, and flung

so much further, Jupiter’s wild—a disco ball
strobing pink and green like strophes on fire pulse

with feeling rising from a page, rising to form
constellations above us both. I can’t read

those pictures, the ones inscribed up there.
The lonely look up, fueled by what

they’ve lost. I see something recast each time
I’m somewhere new. I owe my allegiance to nowhere.

I never tire of looking after flying; after
walking through the underground terminal;

after sitting on the train, nervous my stop has passed,
trying to understand announcements in tongues

I don’t speak; I arrive. Nothing brings us closer
except being close, but it’s good to be alone

and feel strange. It’s better to stand
beside you: to look up, to look

out together and see the same stars—
even then—differently

Blink