Nothing happened last night.
When William Carlos Williams
posed this question to his love–
What happened last night? then promised
to never go to sleep before you again
he wasn’t pondering late night TV.
You weren’t here. Wool gathering was what
happened last night. The question’s whether
or not I’ve the right to expect you to be here–
where nothing’s always happening as we both know–
tendernesses could’ve been exchanged
instead of spilt milk. Though that’s not quite it.
So let’s say G’- night for it’s hardly worth
the effort it takes to talk about tendernesses
lost or found when the whole kit and caboodle,
the whole shebang persists despite our prayers—
If only we could stop what from happening.
One by one precious nights boil down
not to what but to who. Who will be first?
I simply expect you to be here. How
calm I feel knowing my own desire—
knowing how nearly impossible it will be
to keep from broadcasting my frenzy
when you are not here to tell me what
happened, or I you, nothing
will continue to happen
along with everyone else.
