Planes

The night before I left to meet you out west I created your code

For the door

you would come through

After dusk in the harbor town with no chain stores

your chest held my face for

hours

You spoke of dying and leaving

nothing for anyone to bother with behind, the exposed

film of your voice at my temple, I curled closer wanting the moment we were

in to be my life

I thought I was a respite worth a

door to you,

but I work by the airport now and the potholes shake me like when you showed me Los Angeles, the hustling parkgoers crowd around the stolen

wares in makeshift

tarp squares. Above me in the wide

hot sky

every morning

flying white are all the planes

you never took here,

And I still

(write to you at night)

look up blinded

tripping over my wheeled briefcase

searching.

On your birthday I delete the code.