Domestic
Interior
Fanned
spices tease the gods.
Our
gifts, sustained with reedy smoke,
the
scars confirming love,
are
braided to a courser strength.
Consider
this history your own,
makeshift,
undemanding of the years apart,
the
dates and incidents a habit of our lives.
Plump
the cushions.
A
curl of cat whorls knotty on the window seat
and
paper lanterns dangle from a string.
This
hushed response to shadow
repairs
the stars.
Still,
the dark
we
planned our lives avoiding arrives.
Whatever
time it is, it is on time,
everywhere,
for everyone.
The
letters you are reading,
I
wrote where you are sitting, the same view
to
the fall of yews and the sea beyond.
Everything
remembered, you remember now.
This
amends I make, this probate of blue sky
I
swear was ours.
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