dizzy from the onslaught of the springtime I thank
my lucky stars for strings and steamboats I thank
my quiet mind for resting sometimes I think
my lungs are stretching in your absence I worry
that I ask too much of you

to find a place to call home
where the bed nests flush in the corner
and the arms don’t loosen till you say so

to show all of your teeth and blow away
the bombs and dark purple air that cloud your sleep
and invite you to stay a minute longer

to live in boxes if that would make you closer
to knowing what it’s like to be a maypole
or a wild turkey or a king

to square your shoulders when you walk
and when you shudder
and when you listen

to find a place to call home
where you can leave without asking
if it’ll be there still at dusk

from your cohabited bed, you say you can’t see out the window
only in the living room do you feel peace, only during economic conferences
do you remember who are without a frame

springtime air doesn’t taste the same without winter giving way
and you say you’d like to be where people wear sweaters and
comb their hair. you still comb your hair when you remember to
and you think you’ve still got a way with words

but you don’t use them much. you blink often—
who’s to say why—and over crackling lines of hi-miss-you
i hear your voice ache for my bricks and long leash
and hot-cold orange future

you don’t know the half of it

pointillist muscles ache
by turns sharp and muted
echoing soft water lilies
once planted, twice uprooted
caught on canvas
then let go

the radiator sputters
stoic but senile
they taught you acrylic lakes
were more gray than blue
and you paint
by the book now

hard winter holds your brittle fingers
in what it imagines is a gentle grip
you smile to hide your grimace
the quiet sun politely reminds you
what you promised
then let go

this morning rings no bells of my first time
moving lead-legged through elm-split mist
to your doorstep

that day was tinted mustard-yellow
i had my eyes covered tight
and the trembling was mine alone

this morning is all green
like the inside ring of your iris
and the trembling is everywhere

i wait patiently
the mist moves
and not much else

i like names that are real words,
english words like brown or smith or brook
and i like hardware stores with paint chips in the windows
and i like crooked noses and smiling eyes and plastic bottles

insignificant is what you said you were
it’s what you said it was to make applesauce
for a latke party, because what does it matter
to make a meal or a statement it’s all
so small compared to everything else so
insignificant

but it isn’t, i like streetlamps and the way they backlight
branches and i like the trees that still have leaves in december
and i like having nowhere to go
and everywhere
and it’s not insignificant
it’s not

i can’t help but remember all the things you taught me—
how to drink to excess and wake up smiling, how
to cook rice, and where the train is—now
as you lie sideways on the couch,
listing baby names with a cracking voice

cecelia sounds all right