Perpetual peace. Perpetual light.
From a distance it all seems graffiti.
Gold on gold. Iridescent, torqued phosphors.

Music for when the music is over
Is what a poem is. There’s no music
In a poem, just the imaginary

The barn is warm, come inside, lie down,
sleep. Here, no sheep ever fails

Paula did it so others in the office—
who lunch at The Olive Garden together,
don't include her—won't think she is
a loser. On her desktop, it pulsates.

The friend hugs you a little longer than usual and winks.
"Andrew was not the Brother of the Lord," he says,
and you wonder just who is the lord in this story. Who is

 Gesturing toward the master bedroom suite,
"Solid cherry wood!" Mother said grandly.
Two bureaus, two mirrors, four-poster bed,

                Tell her you’ll do anything to keep her.
The red dress twisted under her is the last of
her mother’s history. You want to keep her

To look at them, you might not think the two men, having spoken briefly 
                and now moving away from each other, as different goals 
                require, have much history, if any, 

There are certain words—ecstasy, abandon,
surrender—we can wait all our lives,
sometimes,

Places take you by surprise
you walk past them