A Thing or Two

By | 1 May 2020

The leaf falls on the page,
red, after being green

her whole life. The mail carrier
and his broken marriage

at the door deliver grief
and the Paris Review,

the icemaker knocking out
ice. Outside the trees laugh

the tops of their heads off.
This blow, a breeze, gusts

wildly denuding
deciduous trees, determined

to leave nothing weak behind.
Oblivious, the pines

have grown too close
to the shingled house.

They brush the slats.
Both are cedar and flirt

with reunification. We live
by the sea and clear-cut trees

harvested for building
and burning. Some die

for others, and by some
I mean those who don’t breathe

the way we do, but are no less
alive: beach grass, trees,

the breeze. Dear trees––the earth
still spins for the love of you.

I lean my skin against your skin.
My dog in all innocence pees

at your feet. I let him.
Your mourning arouses ––X––

in the air, what I breathe
and can’t breathe,

what I see and don’t.

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