Evening Poem #46

Whole doxologies overturned
in your absence. Fail
tealights fairly drumroll
at it. The waxing of your
gone. Its tired grit. Who
we choose to authorize
our landings make us
who we are, she said.
One more drink, please,
the tablecloth miraging a path
away from decisions, revisions
of which flash on the board
in yellow: departures, arrivals,
the times we can expect
things to get back to normal,
the sharp literati of their
san serif so clean, you sense
the truth of it, the ice
in your glass, its trim
logic, as it was in the beginning
of tealights, when you still
believed in them, waiting
mosquito-like in the dunes
of a white comforter, the faucet
just now shutting off.