After Tryst

Wherever you are
you are reading
your palms off of mirrors.
The séance of your lover
wherever I am
knows the fortune
of your ambulance hands
flashing red before me.
This is not about
how you moan with a man
you just met.
It’s about how you p lay
the porch harmonica
in a wicker rocking chair
with all the houselights
turned on.
Who are you waiting for?
What cannibal ghost
eats through your skin
as if you were in
some Buddhist hell?
I think you are lonely,
but you like the way
loneliness looks
in the mirror —
like the movie we saw
in the era of our together.
Wherever you are,
I won’t forget the scene
where everyone lives
after they’re happy.