The other day this
friend sent her a picture
again. He calls it his
archive, she her list
of heart skips.
For reasons they're both
aware of. He's in it,
once again. So she started
to make novel lists, of her
addresses, of all states
and concerts attended. Of
all the quotes that sound.
"Meet the modern'' and feel
the sand between her toes
moves well, she might just
stay here.          For a while.
Dust will gather,
another life on standby
in a top drawer.
She kept two keys
her own tip-tongued as
his is swallowed. He'll be
in that house with her,
time again.    
                        Truth said
                        they still call
                        you mine.