I told you I wasn’t easy, and you
laughed. Tea in coffee shops,
a free concert in the park.
When we walked your setter,
I could be quiet, heard the jostle
of dog tags, an icy flute
from a second-floor window.

After you left my bed last night,
it rained, battered peonies flat
white petals pummeled
along the grass.

Before I slept, I heard wind-rhythms,
leaned my head against the glass.
Rain and dark allow me to steep myself
in a solitude I nurse like a vice I refuse
to vanquish. 

You crack that solitude,
show me a quirky sonata
of shapes – trees through the window,
pine and aspen branch-dancing –

their gestures so different from
your fingers in the cobalt dark as you
read me pore by pore. The old light
of dying stars is enough to see by.