you vaguely mentioned that
there would be miniature urine
shrines at the concert, because
they wanted to encourage
respect for public privacy
and this was a joke but I
saw signs for them that pointed
behind disheveled dumpsters
so I told you that you
were a prophet while we were
waiting on line, and you
gasped “hold on, I think God’s
calling me. I’ll be right
back” it took you ten
minutes, whatever you
did, and we laughed because
you said you’d heard
whispers about enlightened
bladders

this was your band – they
had an occasional glockenspiel and
lyrics that secretly made me
crawl into dripping caves inside
my ear so that I could lick
their echoes – and you wanted
to be like them, only more
revolutionary-like
you proclaimed this with
reverberating bones, stretching
your arms like a coat rack and
crying that they made you
know who you wanted to be
I mumbled “calm down”
trying to be embarrassed, but I was
silenced by my smile

after the final
song a friendly stranger who was
strung out on himself asked
what we thought of it, rubbing
his toenails against
each other. you grabbed the
notebook that you make
fun of me for having and
wrote that We Can’t Speak
Yet –
we’re still listening. in the
car I felt your indentations
and you peeled tape away
from your lips and hummed
yourself in the future