The marquee blinked on and off all night
my eyes burnt out
the neon outline residue
carried into morning
my spine leaning
like the long stem without
enough water

we have these choices
in front of us
or we think we have
a choice
most of what has happened
each strand that became the cloth which contains me
was woven together
because there was no other way
because it seemed there was no other way
at the time
in each moment
of its binding,

the force with which
I was drawn to you
to the city of eight million windows
to the books that contained a letter for every tear
of my anger
so that it could become dust
in the wake
of the force with which
we came
to make each other
to travel
the road our making beat
and erected

in your eyes
looking the other way
in the space between
our bodies
a measure
of the choice
that was made
a long time ago
waiting to be unmade
again and again
in the unforgiving dawn
and the harsh
task maker
of the naked sun.