A basement furnace has just kicked off.
We lean in at the bottom of the old Lennox
until we see a blue-and-whooshing pilot light
and the perforations in the shadowplay acting
as ploughshare to divide us from the year 1969—
the year before John Lennon Paul McCartney
George Harrison Ringo Starr call it quits.
The phonograph spins the Beatles, Let It Be.
Tom Kozlowski is talking between the tracks,
between taking turns blowing serial capillaries
of marijuana-smolder up a furnace flue, the thin
smoke hypotenuse between us as white as bone.
After that, maybe something is said or nothing
because Nothing is what inaugurates the part
of the world Wittgenstein says you can’t see.
I climb onto the stool. I am in the world but,
with the help of my friend Tom, I look out
from the world. Both our fathers have jobs
at the air force station. Mine is due home
any minute. We watch for shift-change:
on the lookout for a Pontiac Gran Prix
with the country music station up loud
so that Merle Haggard can sermonize
about not smoking pot in Muskogee
while the war drags on in Viet Nam
and the jeopardy of the Draft looms
as colossal as longing then dissolves
like it was nothing. It isn’t nothing.