We’re day frolicking on the east meadow.
Shadows of sunlight push through the redwood
and play on your jagged chin.
Your eyes are dancing tunnels.
You like me because I can see through
to the opening on the other side.

When was the last time I saw a butterfly?
Oh, the print on the white velvet bell bottoms
in a boutique on the street
with all the homeless kids on the sidewalk
who harass me for cigarettes
next to the city garden where your father has
worked for forty years as a gardener.
You did not get your chin from him.

Your tongue speaks sugar water,
I’ve swallowed every story from the time you can remember.
Your faded grey glasses fall too low on your nose.
You look much better without them.
You look much better in bed.

These bad dreams I’ve been having that
we will not be us.
We will only run parallel and not cross
the intersection of compromise.
They are not small sacrifices.
My grandmother told me I had to marry for love and like and
now I know what she meant.