Unraveling: Your body is the altar at which I lay my mute faith.
Time: There are ways to pass the hours: At the restaurant, a salad tower of wild mushrooms. I think of my garden and the despair of spring.
Unrest: A man rings a bell at his agitation. It agitates me, too.
Maintenance: They find debris floating in the backyard pool, fish it out with nets. Coins sink to the bottom.
Silence: We throw coins in the fountain. Wish for things we cannot say aloud.
Travel: I go to the heart of it, walk the prairie beneath big sky. I meet you there and we make a meadow bed.
Light: Orange. Then gray. Then blue.
Leisure: My mother wore a yellow sundress and a broad-brimmed hat. We sat in the brightest hours and watched the horses run.
Repetition: I have done something to disappoint you.
Landscape: We laid a path of river rocks, then walked it. Our feet ached. We picked up the rocks and scattered them in the prairie grass. Whatever it was we wanted then, we have by now forgotten. Whatever it was we sought with our hands, we have by now, let go.
Light: Blue, then gray, then orange. Slender branches of wisteria. A tower that reaches up so high that for a time, it blocks out the sun.