That year, spring travelled at six miles per hour, sweeping up Cape Horn through Ecuador,
Cuba through the U.S., a blush, reaching us faster than it ever had before.
When it came, we were in bed, and I imagined hearing hooves pounding in the downpour
Of rain; and after, I went out and gathered the seed balls of the sycamore
The storm had stripped, for you. Now what I want to do is impossible. Whatever place you’re
The anonymous goddess of, I’d like to send an extinct grackle there to tell you what I long for.
I don’t know. Maybe you were meant to hear my love without returning it, to walk the seashore
In a floral pinafore—I’ll sing anyway. I want to say: My heart’s still lit up like a ctenophore
Beached by high tide. Remember when you made me wait with my mouth open for an hour or