Tuesday, May 6, 2014

I want to spend a lot but not all of my years with you.
We’ll talk about kids
                              but make plans to travel.
I will remember your eyes
                              as green when they were gray.
Our dogs will be named For Now and Mostly.
               Sex will be good but next door’s will sound better.

There will be small things.
I will pick up your damp towel from the bed,
                                                            and then I won’t.
I won’t be as hot as I was
                               when I wasn’t yours
and your hairline now so
When we pull up alongside a cattle car
                               and hear the frightened lows,
                               I will silently judge you
                               for not immediately renouncing meat.
You will bring me wine
                               and notice how much I drink.

                                               The garden you plant and I plant
                               is tunneled through by voles,
                                                               the vowels
                                                               we speak aren’t vows,
                 but there’s something
                               holding me here, for now,
                 like your eyes, which I suppose
                                                               are brown, after all.

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