Coda


Let’s start with who you are and
where you’re going. What
do you hope to find? We’ll write
code through the night until it
falls away, loose ourselves here
so that you can be lost, too. 
Notice how the sunlight glances
off your blade. And the cat there
behind the door: we spent days
getting the play of her tail just
right. The peaks like sleeping
bodies are not essential to the plot,
nor these dark offices against a red
sky. But it’s hard to stop thinking
about ways to make the world
better. Pines and ear-like leaves
on a desert plant, spinning neon
martini, ketchup bottles like soldiers
in the empty diner—all these
just a hope for someone to talk to, 
useless, except how they make you
remember something you’ve lost,
the way looking at a river long
enough turns light to water,
the current moving like it moved
when every animal chased
hunger through the weather,
and there was weather.