by Cameron Lawrence
But first blame the sun for how I worry time,
polishing it like a rabbit’s foot, or a saint’s thumb.
Blame every minute I pour out as liquor from a flask,
small enough to sip, but large enough to sink a city.
For the mornings I rush-hour from you, and split-
second the children with a forehead kiss, exhausting myself
past the sweepers, the café workers unstacking chairs,
—speeding toward money. Blame the afternoon
for everything unfinished, blame the dusk’s erasure.
And later, when you and I loll together in blue flicker,
adding zeros and ones to the sums of our attention
vanished in the blink of a television switched off,
don’t blame the moments we will lose to sleep,
the incomprehensible landscapes of dreaming.
Don’t blame the numbness of my arm beneath you
for how the years have left us lonesome in the subliminal
tick and hum of clocks. Blame the night not for its darkness,
but for how it ends—its susceptibility to the light.