9 May 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 2

Driving back into the city

by KEETJE KUIPERS

Here's what I'm trying to say: The deer coming toward us through the dark

      and we're unable to see them

The car passing over the bridge into the maw of the city like a willing moth

      suddenly wrapped in fire

The cabs rushing downtown like yellow-winged beetles, bearing the beat

      of many shuddering hearts

Everything just as we left it, the skyline arching its neck on the horizon,

      still growing its spine of suckled spikes

The key slowly clicking in the lock until the door swings open to dinner plates

      stacked like scoured turtle shells

The footprints around the bed unfolding in constellations, opening patiently

      against the floor

And our thighs rocking together like two moored boats in the night,

      all those tender lights held tight in their hulls

There is only one way to say this: We move beneath the moon toward

      something other than ourselves—

Never knowing the eyes that bloom around us, only these words holding up

      the thin air we breathe