you say it
another
time in
the kitchen;
then
i say it
with coffee
in the evening.
we sit,
quietly,
together
at the end
of day —
maybe you
watch a film;
my feet
at your
lap; i open
an old book
... and there
it is again.

you want
the sofa
with nine
lives --
made in a
warehouse,
carried into
a bright
room, then
a judge's
office, then
an apartment;
under the
taking off
and
putting on
of clothes.
i want to
paint the
cabinets
white.
every
morning
— naked,
when you
start to put
a shirt on,
i want to
bring you
back in bed;
tell you how
i have never
seen anything
as beautiful
as you.
you want to
tame your
wild hair
in the shower.
i want a
second cup
of coffee in
the evening.
you want
pickles on
your sandwich.
softly,
as the day
becomes
blue, rosé,
then burnt-
orange —
the lights
come on.
i open and
close the
refrigerator;
you put
music on.
somewhere,
in the middle,
i want
you
just
how
you want
me.
the
delicious
smell of
cooking
garlic; a
familiar
song.
you want
me
just
how
i want
you.

i have
overslept;
daylight
pouring
through
the sheer
curtains
in our room.
"if you're
awake —
i'm
bringing us
croissants
from the
bakery!"
warm toes
on cold floors;
a shirt —
yours
or mine.
sweet
tinkling
of the
wind chimes
outside;
the dull
sounds of
a possible
lawnmower
somewhere.
walking
to the
kitchen;
the apartment
is empty,
except —
our dog
is fed,
two cups
-- clean
and waiting
on the counter;
music
softly playing
on the radio;
the
gurgle
of the
coffee
machine
— a knock
on the door —
croissants
are here,
and you.
oh,
you.

in about
ten years
we will sit
at a very
familiar
coffeeshop,
and get
the same
coffee and
bacon-egg
things, for
the eleven-
hundredth
time.

in a
moment,
four or five
months ago,
we will have
sat in the car
and decided
to make a
life together.

seven odd years
from now,
we will find
ourselves
in front of
a window,
as it rained
outside your
parents' home.

a year or two
in the past,
we will have
crossed paths
without even
noticing.

in many an
uncountable
week; my
bare thighs
pressed
against
yours — we
will slowly
fall into
making love,
first thing
in the
morning.

last september
you will have
gone into a
cornfield and
told me that
i was the one.

fifty-three
minutes
from now
you will have
had your lunch
and kissed
me again.

several years
ago, we will
have gone
to bed in
different
worlds,
without
knowing
each other.

somewhere
in the exact
middle,
we
will have
unknowingly
imagined
and prayed
just for this.

turning in bed;
the last thing
you said to me
is the first thing
on my mind.
last night's
dishes are
still soaking
in the sink,
in the
morning.
if to love
is to stop
reflecting
in bed
and
wash the
***** -- clean,
then i am
terrible at
love today.

if you look
at the
scatter
of stars
in the sky
enough; new
constellations
begin to,
slowly,
materialize.
orion's belt
is suddenly
a man in a
postal hat
buying
croissants
at a bakery;
aquila is
string-lights
on a balcony.
the morning
sun pours in
as you sit,
quietly, at
the table —
warm
matzah,
too fragile
for butter;
words in
your brain
— a tiny
car on the
windiest day.
if you look
at decades-
old photographs
enough; they
start to
morph into
monsters
bigger than
the whole
of you. if
you look at
the monsters
enough; you
are left
with love.
the driveway
is covered
in snow; the
man is wearing
flip-flops at
the park;
the lilacs
are beginning
to grow; the
sunlight in
the afternoon
is turning
the grass
ochre-brown.
you're at
the table;
flatbread
and
depression.
i take you,
by the hand,
to the
smallest
corner of
this house.
stop. look.
if you lay
here,
with me,
and look
at the ceiling
enough; the
paint starts
to become a
night sky,
and there are
constellations.

against
the closed
window; on
the coffee
table —
steam from
the two cups
is the only
significant
movement
in this room.
then,
the rising
and falling
of your chest
next to me.
how and when
am i making
this life?
is this it?
how and when
can i give
you love?
is this it?
daylight has
gone and
come again;
the chinese
silver grass
has survived
the snow.
in new day,
we have
made new
home on a
porch; on a
balcony; on
an old second-
hand sofa;
dusted and
loved again.
crawled under
a white table,
you have tried
to fold yourself
into nothing —
"you couldn't
stay small if
you tried"
how and when
are you making
this life?
is this it?
the maple tree,
autumn-colour
trousers,
soaring choir,
chocolate
pecans,
a flask
found;
a life lost,
cornfields,
sirens,
a wooden
cigar box,
roads and
stories that
lead to places
unnamed and
unknown
are all in
an endless
loop on this
conveyor belt.
we are here;
waiting for
the end of
this day.
beginning
of this
morning;
you will
wake up
any
moment
now.
how and when
can you give
me love?
when you
ask me to
hold you,
i hold myself.
this is it.