Dangerous Goods. Sean Hill
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rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_1bf5174d-60db-5f2c-be37-a40b0c3461f6">DISTANCE BETWEEN DESIRES
From the moon to the end of this poem
hums the distance between desires.
In troughs of night Jasmine slept,
numb from the consumption of rays
from the moon. Through to its end, this poem
fends off desire. A toast to the heavy
drum that pulls us daily and urges that we
hum the distance. Between desires,
men scoff at the moon, hung lightly to shine
plum-dark nights, as they measure breaths
from the moon to the end. Of our poems,
ends tossed out to hold them off, we hope
some may say they rumble on and pleasingly
hum the distance between. Desires
bend us and bend. Doff your hat, where I come
from, a show of respect. Desires plumb where we come
from. The moon to the end of this poem
lends soft light. As one desire leaves another
hums the distance between desires.
I crossed the Mississippi
for the first time
early our second morning out, driving
slow, and after five days of driving—
driving and visiting,
driving and car troubles,
driving and myriad signs inviting:
COME SEE THE WORLD’S LARGEST INDIAN RESERVATION
GREEN PETRIFIED WOOD NEXT RIGHT
LIVE ALBINO CAVE BUFFALO
FREE 72 oz. STEAK
(there’s always a catch),
driving and car troubles,
driving and driving west,
driving and not to the ocean yet—
I can’t sleep in Albuquerque.
Yesterday I realized
the land between
here and Santa Rosa
(where we lost
the transmission
and a day) is
too bare and flat.
The horizon’s not cluttered or
broken,
brought closer by trees
or anything.
I wasn’t meant to see that far.
My mother, father, brother,
grandmothers, and aunts—
everything excised.
I can’t feel it anymore.
Distance grows in the bones.
Tonight I feel the room
spinning like after a bender,
but I’ve been sober
since Georgia.
I can feel the world
wobble under this bed
off balance because
Georgia’s gone to oblivion.
Tonight you want to walk your mother
up the dune to see the stars and down
to the beach to meet the ocean; I wade
into your desire to warn you that the dark
of your mother’s night is darker than your dark
as your dark is darker than mine. Today the surf report
cautions, Don’t turn your back on the ocean. The dark:
an ocean for us all. Even in this small beach town,
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