Vertigo at Sea Level

The rush of mist through the tamarack: that, too,
is metaphor. I mean the thing itself, not
these words. I mean the moisture
condensing on my glasses as I walk the ten steps
from my house to the garage. The heavy door
opening on its chains. I mean the morning
and its crates of light unloaded from the cargo hold
and stacked higher and higher on the dock
till darkness is only visible through the cracks.
And you, too, with your powder blue shoes and vertigo
making me crazy with desire. How you park
on the tracks and crank up the Pearl Jam.
The mist is really surging now. Here we sit,
dizzy at sea level. And I mean on the rails,
watching the waxwing perched on the track,
the yellow band at the tip of its tail, and the echoing
chrome wings on the hood. It all means so much
more than it is. Your plaid skirt rests on your lap,
just above the knees, like a salad
you're carrying to a potluck.
We hear a shrill whistle in the distance.
Nothing is quite as erotic, I mean
as metaphoric, as your knees under the wheel.

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