the wheel

In motion, there is a place to put my eyes, not a still point,
but a turning wheel--hub at the center where
you are, where I am--a wave of television music sliding across
my body as I sit beside my grandmother, and the ceiling fan
turns, dispersing smoke. And the people around me speak
in patterns where words recur again and again--a song
from the radio, a child's request for a glass of water, movie lines,
French textbook dialogue, the conversation in gestures
we continue to have, never the same, still every time
about love. About sleeping together with the window open, risking an embrace

thick as Minnesota summer, long as highways that keep pursuing the horizon--though your voice
can shake apart--"We should
(break up)"--and my heart shivers, aches--yet your hands pull me into
your chest so eagerly--you must long for me in the darkness, as I long.

With the hub at the center, I will not say
"yes"--trade one pain for another--an empty
palm for a closed fist. The wheel must turn, starting at the hub,
and at the place farthest from--no one moves alone--the pattern continues
somewhere else--and I say "please--don't give up--don't"--tears
come, always pass, leaving behind a smile, coffee grounds and laundry hanging in the sun, begin again, keep beginning.  I am with you, happy, and have ever been,
so fully--even tears, the grit of anger cannot efface
what our lips and eyes inscribe--say I love you, just say
I remain, turning.