Here’s Where the Story Ends
As though it were simple to live happily and alone,
an infection overwhelming every good thing.
The dog stands inside the fence barking
her sweet loneliness at a passing mail truck.
She whines at the door. From my desk, in pajamas,
I watch children walking home from the bus,
past the neighbor’s busy two-stroke Lawn-Boy
harvesting blossoms in the last winter grass.
A low cloud of mulch, fumes, and sun.
A pasture clouded with stubborn kite-tails.
Beneath trees full of affection for anything
unbound, this heat: it leaves the body like a fever.
It exhausts all ambition to stay in one place.
Love is an ambition to live like a saint
even if there is no sainthood inside of you.
Not you, but here. Not here, but here, in this photo,
where my heavy arm casually holds us close,
your cheeks flush as we wait for the recognition,
patiently posing, a consequence of wanting, to have come this far.