The DMZ

The credits are rolling in a slow crawl,

white letters on a field of flat black.

There is a canyon between your hip and mine,

a wide, corduroy desert where the light goes

to die without a fight.

I see a single gray thread lying there,

a border wire snagged from the wool throw.

The cushion is dipped in the center,

holding the shape of a person who left

long before the movie started.

The light flickers blue against your throat.

You’re close enough to reach, I suppose,

if I felt like crossing the state line.