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Grace Cavalieri

Good Golly, Miss Molly - Grace Cavalieri
—for Jan


Somehow I think you'd love to hear
about the line between
detail and loss
as the motorcycle and I
drive into an amber fog,
Orpheus out of a 50's film
into tangerine light playing on
the fronts of windows blurring

so fast between devotion and death.

Lying on a rumpled pillow
listening to the stars,
feeling gladness for reasons
known only to them,
old lovers and friends watch
as morning goes on,
framing empty houses,
then I'm riding again

into a sequel of childhood,
or the other side of it, a life
halved by dark. Not too bad
during the day,
but awful when I think
you can't visit me
with old sun bonnets
and a watering can.

Up the long flight of relativity,
we're certain to lose love,
before we can waste it,
wanting more than we can use.
Into the neighborhood,
into the yellow light,
something in my teeth says

I don't want to be there
when I reach your house.


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