Like pianos
or ovens
or puzzles,
some people
see mornings
and know just what to do.

When my father finds
he has the wrong tool,
he mumbles to himself,
shuffles to the workbench,
comes back with something else.

My watermelon thumb
crosses your brown leg,
like a thirsty prince
in a dizzy desert.

I trace bug bites
and stubble,
while you radiate heat.

I feel our whole summer
pouring out of you.

When the sun gets high,
I search for shade.

I click
and click
and click,
mining new words
to mean new things.

Darts in all directions
draw lines directly
back.

The space we make for hate
is space
that we make.

Wrapped for warmth,
my neighbor plans ahead,
glances around.

She sees in future weeks
and ensures
she'll love well there.

She counts all her kids
again and again.

She paints flowers
on their faces
and sings to them
in Spanish.

It must be frightening for her
to see so many colors,
to hear wolves so far away.

Old men like me
stare at maps,
find battlefields
and forests,
start planning
trips.