Our Spring Has Gone Tired
We can hear moonlight stuckin pickling jars.We can see scars on the newly painted walls.
I did not predict this sort of
house for us.We want to rewind this roomto make love again in the
doorwaythat is gone since we have turned
around.It’s like an ocean hereand I can hardly believein the sun, in dry
wind.There’s nothing strange about himtouching me, except that it is
happeningand the kitchen hasn’t turned itselfover to sparrows yet.We will sit and watchfor any space between usto show up — endanger itselfso that we can understandthe trauma of our doorknobsand salt