Over the last few years
your days have been filled with tumultuousness;
random accidents, you claim.
To me, seemingly unforgiveable,
made fouler by the dark mead of disillusion.
What was I supposed to think—?
the man, the smell,
the bottle, the flowers from Michigan:
none have meaning beyond their chance grouping.
Loving you has been like capturing a switchblade,
unexpectedly, with arteries and veins.
In the matte green vase.
Beneath the fourth stone
of the patio walk. Between
leather-bound volumes of
Cervantes and Chaucer. In
the pocket of a tweed jacket
you forgot you ever wore.
On the ledge of the mantle clock.
At the bottom of the cedar chest
next to an ivory and pearl dress.
On the second smallest finger
of the left hand where you
placed it long ago.
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