For Sam Donsky
The airport where all movies end:
the scenery's mobile, the people too
(the people want to be moved),
and the rounded stairways join set pieces
like farewells in a series arc. I don't
understand how you write good scripts
without knowing there are gods. I've
learned the same things we've all learned:
when a man runs through my hotel suite
I can expect another half a second later.
Also, tell me why I keep two keys,
one of which unlocks something.
Also, I know, we know, that you (hell-o)
will have vanished before I finish saying this
and turn around. "You'll do that," I'll mention
to the night, and spin my swivel chair,
perusing the moment's sunkenness. Meanwhile
my antivirus angel is checking every file.
We both know there's a place you touch
when your plane lifts off (I won't say where),
a little bolt that takes the plot apart,
so closure is dismantled, because from here
you can admit that nothing's ever ended well.
You have queued to show your documents.
You have left behind your possessions
for the kind scientists. The stairs have spun
away and sunk, and in losing your itinerary
your position is confirmed. Like, the first time
a woman sees a diamond she just knows.