Light Things Lifting

Do you feel a letdown
when the sheets
and sweat
of summer sex cool
in the twisting aftermath
and coat you
in a chill?

Or after devouring
the Applebees steak
upon remembering the
existence
of customarily gratuitous
gratuity?

Can you smell the air
thick as a steak
garnished with blossoms

welcoming your waitress
after closing
as a newborn
delivered
out through the alley door
into the welcoming night

waddling
home to feed her cat
waiting in a pitch black
unconsciousness?

At least you know that
you are capable of an impressive
capacity for zen

kneeling backwards
into a car seat—
sitting shotgun

playing mind games with
yourself
to successfully start
a stream of urine
into the open mouth
of an empty bottle of
Vitamin Water.

At least you are
capable of returning
physically
to the sites
of subtle moments in your life
when something
wonderful
and savage was felt

no matter what
letdown may have
followed.

Take one last piss
in the lilacs of luxury
surrounding
your father's backyard—

in that ring of garland, walls
of velvet and wax
from secret lungs
breathed suggestions
into
the flowering mechanisms
of your inner ear.

The tin wreckage of soccer
rebounding nets
encased in all that
rotting satin
will reassemble
and stake
a marker into the eternally
locatable back bedroom
fixed forever
in relation to
Square Lake Road
and Middlebelt
despite the desperate suck
and pull of
petty
outer space.

Make love beneath
the crabapples'
blossoms—
white
and heavy

the soft pulpy
bulbs
squishing
beneath two bodies
into the sodden floor
there beneath.

Like garbage
blooming
beneath the raccoon's
crafty
claw
and spinning upward
into an umbrella of orbit
when the pedals
catch breeze:

there is no letdown
in the reversal
of the hellish
into the
holy.