You play this game slowly before falling asleep.
Each tries to make the softest, barely audible sound,
And it is about all that you could never say.
Next to a person you love, face up to face,
Start audibly at first, the sound’s made with your tongue.
You play this game slowly before falling asleep.
The room is swallowed in darkness, but what lies beneath?
Quietly above, the vault of stars moves round,
And it is about all that you could never say.
You held her, said you loved her, but she walked away;
Outside stones lie buried deep beneath snow.
You play this game slowly before falling asleep.
Whatever does not occur is yours, forever, to keep.
The stars are no one’s mirror. Say window, say home,
And it is about all that you could never say.
Listen long enough and what was color becomes sound.
Against the enormous dark, her small face remains blonde.
You play this game slowly before falling asleep,
And it is about all that you could never say.
Mark Irwin is the author of seven collections of poetry, including White City (BoA Editions, 2000), Bright Hunger (BoA Editions, 2004), Tall If (New Issues Press, 2008), and most recently Large White House Speaking (New Issues, 2013). His latest project, American Urn: New & Selected Poems (1987–2013), is forthcoming in 2014. He has been awarded four Pushcart Prizes and fellowships from the NEA and the Fulbright, Lilly, and Wurlitzer Foundations. He lives in Colorado and Los Angeles, where he teaches in the PhD in Creative Writing & Literature Program at the University of Southern California. Read a 2013 interview with Mark Irwin. (updated 10/2013)