At the top of the stairs
what I saw
—broken cylinders
in a chandelier, and a skylight, refracting
a carelessness beyond innocence,
beyond flaw,
beyond
years.
Broom straw tracks
inscribe the dirt
on the landing like riddled
veins, or concertina. A buddy of mine
is up there, wearing a hoodie, socks
and jeans;
his forearm is swollen
to the size
of his thigh; he skids
like Tom Cruise in Risky Business
across the whispery floor.
We are walking down
the hall,
together again it hardly seems
possible. “You’re taller,”
he says, “what’s it been?” whiskered face
tilted toward the skylight, smiling
up there, glazed,
insensate.
“Put some fucking shoes on,”
I say, wrapping my arm
around him
but he’s gone;
and there’s more
sand pouring
from the broken chandelier
than I ever saw before.
At the door down the hall, I pull up
short.
He left a note.
—
***
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