Chicago

Everything and Her

my world is unfamiliar
the Buddha bracelet on my wrist
the heat of the air
the distance to everything

she doesn't answer her phone,
and suddenly I'm alone in America,
a boy perched on a hotel bed,
uncertain about everything

maybe I'll visit the city museums
and wander with an open hand
where her hand should be,
a tourist, alone in the everything

outside the trees are shimmering
and I forgot my path, my way through
this labyrinth of mornings, in dreams of her
and what we mean together: nothing and everything

Exposure

concrete mountainrange starshadow
the uncountable windowpanes
of the Sears Tower
dark outline, a figure in a dream
barely beheld, looming
we wished on a penny
thrown into the smoking, black river
we would have followed each other into,
laughing, shocked, overwhelmed

on a hotel bed you swam in the dark river
of your own mind, and I couldn't reach you -
face hidden, crying, pinned in place
by the pressure of all your past and future.
You said your face was not your own,
that your dreams were an alien landscape,
that you were afraid we would destroy each other.

I could photograph the Chicago skyline,
caramel sun, grey lake, jagged buildings
making us so small,
but not you - bigger, more real
than water and skyscrapers,
smiling in your sleep like a Buddhist statue.
I want to expose a film to your inner suns -
delicious alien light exploding in the skin, bone and eyes
of the destroying goddess dancing