I.<\/strong><\/p>\n The geography of a sandcastle This I cannot promise. but today I can promise you You could say I read Dave’s book Our geographies once crossed in Syracuse Dave’s book had me in a Syracuse it was gone and goodbye to all that II.<\/strong><\/p>\n After my wife leaves her geography is no longer mine And I am sure the book And the geographies only get bigger. The geography of ice caps melting and And I know how a lost geography can return: III.<\/strong><\/p>\n Maps on top of maps on top of maps Untitled<\/strong><\/p>\n \u201cHow many times will you do this or that, \/ without being aware \/ of the time passing \/ or the time that still remains to you?” <\/em>Aleksandar Ristovic <\/p>\n And it was only a corner as if that corner which I’ve dreamed dreaming of the day a car would forget of many on a round earth waiting for the lights, checking as I dream of my acquaintance as the lights twitch Opinions, Not Facts<\/strong><\/p>\n I kiss the chauffeur I correct him with my mouth, I am so tired to be alone. I could have been alone with C. 1. I see other people kiss 2. Tonight K. spoke hypothetical so well it could have been tell you how many hypotheticals I’ve ruined kissed a woman with a wine-stained face, yet woke only 4) I take everything with me when I go. <\/p>\n
\n is not the same as the geography
\n of a wave. Some may think the wave
\n has a grander geography.<\/p>\n
\nI cannot promise much<\/p>\n
\n I am thinking maps made of sand,
\n certain a book is a kind of geography.
\n Last week Dave sent me his.
\n I took it on a trip to Italy.
\n Italy is one of my geographies.<\/p>\n
\n with my Italian face and that face,
\n like Dave’s, has its own geography.
\n I only ever see Dave’s face by mail;
\n his geography is that far from mine.<\/p>\n
\n where our adult maps were made
\n and cooling lava shaped the land.
\n And like that we have cooled.
\n Now, we lie on sediment and silt.<\/p>\n
\nwhen I lost it in the men’s room and then<\/p>\n
\n and this missing became important to me.
\n For the next few months it was an omen
\n and if I stumbled and fell, if I cut my thumb
\n I would think of Dave’s book and how
\n it was a sandcastle collapsed in a wave.<\/p>\n
\n I think of the book, cawing like a magpie.
\n She will not promise but I know<\/p>\n
\nand I have a face she will only visit.<\/p>\n
\n has a new skin around it, the water of the book, the kiss
\n of the book has new desires and it left as my Syracuse face
\n has left and can only be found in mail and in the distance
\n of all the waves, all the shores
\n all the shores with no waves
\n all the waves with no shores
\n all the faces that have waved
\n at my shore.<\/p>\n
\nI promise, everyday the ocean is deeper.<\/p>\n
\nthe style of a sandcastle to stand.<\/p>\n
\n the geography of a lost pendant, a lost wallet,
\n a love, the geography of her neck. I cannot promise
\n but this is not impossible except often you return
\n to an old geography with a new face.<\/p>\n
\ntranslucent and inaccurate but
\na palimpsest nonetheless and all the time,
\nreading Dave’s book, I was in a Syracuse
\nwhere the ocean never arrived
\nand our faces never departed.<\/p>\n
\nbut I turned it with more worry
\nthan normally I worry <\/p>\n
\nwas the year of my death
\nor a shadow of death <\/p>\n
\nsince I was a child
\nwatching street lamps<\/p>\n
\nto stop or I’d forget to look. And this
\nwas only a corner, one <\/p>\n
\nand the shadows that pass
\nare only shadows of people <\/p>\n
\ntheir watches or scanning
\nfor an acquaintance <\/p>\n
\nturning up, as if by surprise,
\nan expected surprise, sure <\/p>\n
\nback to green
\nafter a long red. <\/p>\n
\nholding the wrong name
\naway like bloody offal<\/p>\n
\nof shadows and ink at airports and trains and all
\nthe bus stations. I didn’t have to rush to Bulgaria<\/p>\n
\nor R. or anyone but H. If you had a full name
\nI could not be alone with you. G. would call
\nthis abstraction and H. would never call
\nthis a choice, she’d call these facts. I know facts:<\/p>\n
\n see kisses while pedals are still
\n spinning — how he rushed
\n and the bike and the red bike fell.<\/p>\n
\n German. We had hypothetical gestalt. I blame the bar
\n there was no electrics, only candles, the owner
\n so afraid of a shock, so fearless of fire. And K.
\n so serious about the squish and blast of us
\n of course I had to <\/p>\n
\nor how many hotels and motels and inns
\nI’ve covered in dust. Hallways of frozen dust
\nup north, crocodile sheets down south, the tub
\nin Rome and all the nights in the motel of my own flat,
\nthe odd alone of my mother’s home. Even a hotel
\nin Zadar, the only town I’ve been bashed by a Z,<\/p>\n
\nwith purple on my ribs, purple everywhere, I was so
\nin love the whole city was purple, 3) mornings alone, left
\nside of her face faded and the hypothetical woman faded
\nand the purple faded and still there are those
\nwho hurry off trains, who travel light so they can hurry
\noff planes, luggage in only one holding hand<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/12\/ryan_van_winkle500.jpg\")
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