September 16th, 2008... back up backtrack

The first time I watched a man get out of bed
for two hours at once
I wrote
at once
I wrote
for the newspaper
OLD MAN GETS OUT OF BED
with the sub-title THIS KIND OF THING HAPPENS
EVERY DAY
and realized I could not be married
to you

I wrote
at once
a novella, entitled
THE TOILET PAPER HERE
IS LIKE STREAMERS
FOR COMMUNISTS
I wrote on graph paper because
as I wrote
THE LETTERS GET SMALLER
AND SHORTER
I could fit more in
but really
the letters just got shorter

I sawed down a tree
that autumn
with my own hands and
another pair
and on the tree we wrote
in slugs and bitten ankles and soft water
I CANNOT BE MARRIED FOR THIS
BECAUSE THIS KIND OF THING HAPPENS
EVERY DAY
and agreed
across language and across hours
that even in the direst of circumstances
(TO DODGE THE DRAFT WOULD YOU MARRY ME?)
I could not be married
to you

I wrote
my fingers unfurling
more slowy than his
in the spongebathwater
I wrote in the halting steps of
a man waking up for two hours at once
I wrote in my needles
and his saliva and brittle skin
in all the dead cells he would give me
I wrote in the sound of the rain
under a canopy of poisoned grapes
and wrote symbolically
in the milk-bench blocking the door
this kind of thing happens
every day