We wouldn’t want love for less than it’s cost us
to this point: a dream dress ruined in going
across the grain. Fits thin, and soon we’re witness
to seasons and fields we define. As sowing
goes, this thread of hands will till the knowing,
and as we go, following the wrong order,
sow-till, sow-till, till crows envy our growing
autonomy. Days called long will be shorter.
In the finger, a glass shard plays the reporter,
kisses the medic, cotton could be a brocade vice.
Niceties are always nice, gifts like mortar
for a house we’ve already built. So our eyes
being green and mongrel, good lines we’ve drawn,
we keep them so close, our rows. We understand.