Why
not take a jar of wine
and
each day visit the arch?
You
can place sandbags at the door
as I
wind the stairwell up.
The
roof opens wide:
a
stretch of park lengthens.
The
traffic below is a mosquito
shut
in a jar, silent.
You
tap the glass—
a life
of rush-whizz.
I sip
red and gravity
whirs
me down.
You
list destinations;
I list
languages.
You,
geology,
I,
ruins.
You
are the guide
I hold
when everywhere
spins,
and celerity
overwhelms. You are
the
facts that walk me straight.
Here,
on the Grand arch,
Lincoln
a
gesture toward unity, you say.
You
pour particulars into place:
rings
on a tree stump charting
the
years, the length of the equator.
I kiss
the fact of this empty jar: your mouth.