to¯ot süēt′ 2008

granite points and shifts of some-rock

the objects of our affection might change

to replay the chord to box up the wine bottles I left at your sink

we scrambled to the top and broke out the camera

I can hear your good-bye slowly condensing flat third on the front window

                describing me. peeling paint instead of the bridge we climbed.

with a photograph we drew our weapons

four sharps but the melody still comes through.

I thought I would live in a thousand countries, with hundreds stored                                     still                                        as if the wars did not come to them

I played rogue you’re the playwright

slowly the birds of the spring the gulls the link

the ice fields loosen their hold to the ground

three inches each year will bring the whole shelf down

the north and the south; my love was not like that

hearts do not steer when you ask them to turn

melodies surprise the mind when they’ve been lost for years

and exposing the heart’s route can wash away the trail