In the slow globe weather it is time to move on.
Imagine this house empty, another child conceived in your love-room,
the off-white dresser on the snowy curb. Maybe brown eyes
this time, maybe a girl.
We never lived here, only followed routine,
and learned the names of each thing we could not see:
Snow plows, commotion, birth story
We broke up here, in every room of the house, against
windows, on the floor. It was our lovemaking, all of that ending
and ending again.
I was teaching our son to spell. I got to the letter O
and I wanted to stop my heart /
I am over the moon's glow
that I can't sleep through.
We begin a long time ago,
before earth, and we are born randomly out of mothers
I invented you out of time and we needed each other, only briefly—
We will not make love again on this earth.
But if we do, I will feel the fake snow and be warm in it
