Rusting

and it was just a buzzing. Maybe smoke but no fire
when the house fell down, and it was all
because you were so cruel to me my dear.
It rusted out the hinges--we had a whole house
built from hinges, the way it could open
and shut at every corner--and when the bolts
split apart from their fastenings that was its own way of telling
us that oxidation is really a loss and not a gain,
no matter how much you marvel at the beautiful
red brown color of the precipitant. The same way
that running mascara on a crying girl can look like
lines taken from a favorite charcoal drawing, or
that I was always at my most articulate when
almost of breath, yelling. Maybe that can help explain why,
when it was over, I didn't drink whiskey but, instead,
sat in the kitchen drinking tall glasses of ice water
and looking and wondering how so much sun can
fit on a windowsill without spilling.

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If poetry still has something to say, it will say your name
It will say it how I said it on long walks,like you said mine
in between kisses and drags off of my cigarette
on nights when your white teeth shown in the streetlamps
and, my God, will you look at the way they stand up and clap?