The roses wilt and congregate,
stuffy as priests, on the kitchen table.
So much of our love
is metaphorical. Was. Why not this?
Last night I got high
and sat at the edge of the pool
where entire galaxies
are flung like a grindstone’s fire.
I slept on the lawn. It was absurd.
What did the neighbors think?
Some mornings I watch a neighbor
(I won’t say who) undress; she cracks
the blinds so thinly. She isn’t more
than a fist of wren feathers.
If I throw the roses in the trash,
you’ll tell the therapist. He’ll look
at me, then back at you, his head
staggering like a sprinkler.
The days are too long
when you’re neither young nor old.
I flip through magazines
like our house is a waiting room.
While you’re at work, an ellipsis
of crows perches the electric lines
and crickets bury sharp songs
among the azaleas. I sometimes drink
at noon, on the porch. I notice how men
look at their wristwatches
like they once looked at their wives.