Many realize waste
I struggle behind its shape
Revolting truth hmmmm

Cabin libraries always look warm
and deliberate for something so unplanned.
Take one. Leave one.
A borrowed book belongs anywhere.

//

The stacks in Ashley’s apartment come off more Doric than inviting.
A row in the windowsill fits snug like vacant brownstones.
Even if there was space for one more,
it would look odd
among the tall, straight spines and faded covers
blistered by seasons.
I lend her Consider the Fork because it’s all about giving.
She stays in her room when I’m home,
shut behind the white french doors.

//

A copy of The Big Sea sits on my nightstand.
It props up a lamp I should have anchored to the wall.
I haven’t opened it since college except to find a quote I’d misremembered
about ghosts and keys and ships.
We’ve only got four months left in this house anyway.

In her ritual
Gentle moonlight we obey
Time slips away

Many waste the love
I promise my many blows
For partner peace

When I was a child I saw the moon
Beaming through clear constellations
Of Franconian sky.

Last night I saw the Snow Moon
Dull behind the soot
Of 8 million people.

These four weeks
I’ve known no name
For your moon.

Still it waxes in me
The thought of you never waning.

Have you ever noticed
that on a grassy afternoon
the bugs feel like raindrops
pitter-pattering
against the back of your hot neck?

They collide
dull and wet
then fall with a buzz into open field.

I mow the lawn
think of you and head inside.