Ours is a house without glass.
Soft sentences lie folded on the table,
secret thoughts in unlabeled empty jars.
We wait for gentle curtains to whisper them.
Summer air inhales our dull and open spaces.
We channel unspoken words into piano music
and morning runs and occasional cleaning.
We marry these all together, you and I,
in the strength of our waiting.
Spirits and lovers with adequate space
move forward into one other. They cover
themselves in the evenings with sidewalks
and trees, the way good neighbors with dogs
walk intently from place to place.
I remember the afternoon sounds
of your breath when we descended
from the highest dune. We never
spilled family words on family words, or
sang songs that rattled from the dashboard.
We have only stiff solitude now, whipped along
in a thick dark breathing river, with no place
else to be. We have big holes in our days
filled with mindless blue sketches of the sky.
A quiet quarter moon slips promises through
square holes in our outer walls, and passes
a fading glance at the beautiful red dress
you are saving for another kind of day.
8-18-11
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