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Sport 36: Winter 2008

Goodbye — or — How to leave the first-day-of-spring party with less than you came with

page 174

How to leave the first-day-of-spring party with less than you came with

In the pelican's fabric beak, I find a home for our made-up
story about pelicans. I typed one line, you typed one line.
The structure of surprise—let someone find it.
Out on the balcony (no one lives downstairs,
we can be this loud) I remember how cloud-watching

isn't just for children. Everyone owns the clouds,
so no-one does. Stegosaurus becomes teapot,
sailboats are losing their sails with the wind.
Moon is bright, spring moon. In the middle of a perfectly
bright conversation about sex I ask him if he's ever lost

someone. Yes, three people. But it's nothing much profound.
Apparently he talks about death with everyone.
Gingerbread men are iced into their silver buttons,
like children used to get sewn into their winter clothes.
Start with the arms. This will hurt. Who lives downstairs again?

Tomorrow we can put our scarves away.
Closed drawer, draggled ends in tangled connection.
Gloves with fingers empty of fingers
trying to hold hands. I saw you with fake snow
caught in your hair, looking like an angel,

looking like someone—overcome—who runs out
into the snow, instead of just there when someone brings
the snow machine inside. The secret ingredient is soap.
So when he points it at the walls and the photographs
of people from New York, it's like they're having a bath.

page 175

Bathtub becomes spaceship. Fake snow in the cobwebs,
clean spiders. Bring up the sun. Tomorrow will be
a nice day. All chalked up, writing made-up stuff
about snow to say goodbye to the cold.
People don't say proper goodbye anymore. Say see ya.
Say see ya later.