It wasn’t the stirring songs of night-bound birds,
which hid in the blooming apple tree to rest —
or the mellow drums and bronzed music we heard,
or the cloudy-red aroma your roses left.

❀

It wasn’t the dancing, the soft-stepped unfurling —
the twirling or the gold champagne after,
swirling in our cups, or when I said, “Your girl’s
so tired. Your girl’s all ready to go,” and you laughed
at my bluntness, or at the way I tripped and fell
through the swinging silver-***** glass doors.

❀

It wasn’t the way you picked me up, or the swell
of your arms as we pulled apart — or how you snored.

❀

But when the church bells cried midnight, I sighed
in surrender to a surreal host of lives.