To Adam
I loved you
You were an oboe
Singular and grave
The inside of my mouth
Played you
We drove together
The earth was suffering
What was hurt wanted to shine
Sanctuary and true
Directly above the potholes
The truth is the pothole is a womb
And men are scraping there
Though you, my oboe,
Erase them
I loved you
You were an oboe
Tiptoeing, careful and grave, inside
“They fix things for us,“ Ben says
Bareheaded men looking down
So many versions of men looking down
No mathematic
Speaking now
To the inside of my mouth:
Rest
Speaking now to the fictional real:
I believe in you
Sanctuary and true
Shining directly above the pothole
Down into the ruin where I find you
Driving, looking down
Though the ruin is not you
Curled, proud, your invisible shape, your effort
You curl there almost comfortably
Between so many men looking down
Are they here for you too?
Why else are they striking the ground?
Oboe?
