my neighbor builds theremins in his basement.

he is convinced
that god planted the idea for the theremin
in its inventor’s head
to ensure that someday
we would all find it easier to believe in aliens.

he almost has me convinced as well.

tony, he says, i’m glad you’re here.
the world is a darker place
without good neighbors. that frost, he
got it all wrong. no fences, no boundaries,
forget all that long history of division.

i don’t believe in division either, i tell him.

we get along well, my neighbor and i.
he builds and plays and i listen. oh, and he flies too;
i see him flying over our houses sometimes
and i am surprised i can’t hear any music then,
he moves so gracefully. but i don’t think anybody hears any music.
in fact, i’m not sure anyone else sees him flying.

of course, i’m sure they don’t see me when i fly.

one day, i have a moment of clarity.
if there are aliens, i tell him,
we might never know them. they might
be among us now. and they might not know themselves
until a theremin started to whistle.

now you’re catching on, he says.

it’s my right
to hang on to everything about tonight
especially that dumbass hat you wore to dinner

after steak and weightless talk
we eventually got down to
the way we ought to recall each other

i did not expect that denim
would be so easy to tear
and the way you messed around with my back

made me grin like a fat frog
in a warm swamp — all wet and
croaking with the love

only a thin skin can believe in
and if you even try to pretend i’ll be forgetting this soon
cowgirl you’ve got another

ranch to buy
another farm to subdivide
another man to spoil

i spotted a bumper sticker on the way home
that said “save a horse
ride a cowboy”

for miles and miles I didn’t see
a horse or a cowboy anywhere
until i pulled off the road

and thought about the way your hair
whipped back when you flipped your head back
off of me

and i whistled the good the bad and the ugly theme
lit a cigarette
squinted into the night wind