A POEM BY BRIAN HENRY


        from More Dangerous Than Dying

          The long and short of it
          transferred
          to another department

          we never get the gist

          Just as knowledge stands before us
          ready to render us
          wise

          it pushes ahead of me
          wheedles its way to the top

                    *

          A thing is delivered
          to your In-basket

          carbon-copy to me

          The official words forlorn

          You whistle over the din

                                                                                                    a tune I cannot catch

          On the cusp                                                                      our routine location

          We hold hands
          by the water cooler

          I feed my copy to you

                                                                                 You press yours
                                                                                 against my tonsils

                    *

          The office party was a carnal affair

          The elevator between floors
          we descended three flights
          for the room key

          Ed from Accounting
          with his tequila

          Licking slamming sucking
          to a free continental breakfast


                    *



          Twice-worn shirts
          waiting for the laundromat

          “Your job is safe”
          my threadbare consolation

                                                                                                               “No matter what
                                                                                                               we'll have each other”
                                                                                                               my appraisal

          You roll and pull
          the cord

          My pupils hold
          the dark until morning

                    *

          The sun tries to roll its way over us
          and strike into the distance

          a missile with no trail
          no final destination

          We tilt toward the kitchen
          find no light to go by

          Cat hair pools
          connects under the bed

          The wood of the floor molds to my spine
          the bed holds its place in the corner

          The sun tries to roll its way
          over us

          We stir and pivot
          stay our course                 lightless



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Brian Henry's books are The Stripping Point,Quarantine, Graft, American Incident, and Astronaut. He co-edits Verse magazine.


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