Gusts shake windows loose from their frames,
bend the house numbers on the garden gate. 
Heavy, cold rains. Washing our shirts in the bathtub, 
the water like a sour wine. Outside our cottage
the ground’s soft with wefts of saplings, a lawn of baby 
palms. Dead apple blossoms down in the dappled 
light. I steal cuttings from other people’s yards, pluck
Coreopsis, hang laundry on the line. Neighbors 
sing their tiny children to sleep. On my evening 
walk, the jasmine blinks awake. Remember 
this? It’s all that’s left. 

The laundry’s sorted, the breakfast dishes 
exquisitely soiled.
I hate to be reminded of my learned domesticity. 
What do I fear worse than wasting my life?
Will they say I was helpful?
Honey, they won’t say anything at all. 
We’re hallucinations. 
Grains smaller than the seed of a seed 
scattered in the dark matter 
that has yet to kill us. 
A miracle! But if you want to change the world
you start by filling out an application. 
When it’s warm enough to feel 
comfortable in my skin, I’m all fire  
and I love people.
Not the idea of humanity in general 
but specific people I know
I want to know slower. 
Let us hold everything up. 
Oh, it was the freest time in my life. 
Those endless afternoons in which I waited for you. 
The fragrant evenings.
The dishes are waiting.
So let them wait.
I’m always pleased to realize
that I have my life—I have it 
and can change it—
anyway
I have my life