From the bed, you can't see out the window.
But believe me,
summer's here again,

her wide skirt skimming earth
as all around what we've planted
are coming into color, that most contentious speech.

So what. So what.
Your face is turned to me anyway,
the consolation prize.

In a few days you'll be blind.
Then me memorializing this garden
is a luxury.


"Sunday Morning"

Sunday Morning 3-17-97
But we're the same person.
When did that happen?

I lie next to you a little while,
still fused in the morning's dreams.
In the next room, water boils.
I pour two bowls of tea.

You sit in the window,
one hand on the cat.
You watch the sun
in someone else's yard.
When I touch your shoulder
it's the cat that moves.

9:30. Then 11:00.
We make love again
on the floor near the window.

Please. Please -
Maybe this time
the sight of my thin arms clinging to you
will move the gods to amnesia -
And my paper boy,
this paper heart -

In the bathroom I cry and you hum
the usual song to my cheek.
I love you I love you. You kiss
me into silence. Sillyness, sillyness -
I look to you and you make the promise again:
I'll be here.
We still have all summer left to see.
I will be here.
And death will wait -