At four a.m. vegetables are going
to be delivered but no market destination yet.
My stomach sags with old food in this long day
trip from yesterday’s nightmare to this recovery
your mother signs with anonymity.
These wrinkles on the face are nothing
but fattening asparagus wired to my brain’s
street map of indeterminacy. Visible horizon
glowing my hair, to be grey and still; I hope
I care for another season. This tunnel cares
so much about mobility and spicy crises.
It does. It’s the reason why we deliver
dried oregano or life and death safely from
point to point, why in express we smell home.
I stay alive though, sensing velocity
as an ambulance would in a dream—
brisk, accidental. Remember the first time
your little bones cried for milk?
The turquoise lights I detest are satellites,
the remaining light so imperial to touch the end
the remaining skin of drones, my alabaster
bed, memories dissolving to onion molecules,
not dying as I am the same boy my mother
used to kiss. My body remembers,
the goods are safe and I feel a likeness veined
in marble upon marble of my hopes for you. As long as you’re here entering tunnels
with me, stuck to our old Sinatra on the stereo,
I’ll have no problem closing my eyes
in this eternity of four a.m.