Tell me
I am a garden, the odd path
out of the forest, thorns. The floor
of our stone house
loves you
as I love your morning
weight, evening lightness.
We harvest the mist
over four lakes. We envy
beech leaves,
which won’t escape their branch
and fall.
It is January. You dive
for lake pearls,
freshwater assassins. What
would you have me
tell you? The black socks
were a joke. The cork
dried out. The air
still wet after rain. We hide
the shoe in our sycamore
and feast
on solitude. We envy mallards
the lake’s thin ice.
Last ice. You
your shirt, my sheet,
this poem.
At midnight, we thirst,
we wake and pace the halls.
Rose glass, ache,
pewter, moss: I fail
the window’s art. You wait
out the frost. Tell me
how to undo you.
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