I think I could go on hours and hours with you

I needn’t worry because

You get it—the smell of dirt in the night air

Is just the same indeed as a rotting post in a field

In the sunshine with a baseball bat,

Hitting the ball once and getting out

And not taking a single base the entire season of little league.

I can find you when I want you with the spiders

In the bottoms of coolers with rust on their tops

Or leaves on grey concrete in suddenly chilly fall.

You get it—the way the cars sound driving on top of

Our roofs in their nearness and farness and middle distance.

The cast shadows of a Christmas parade

When the forest is so thick and lush and shaking with life.

You are the slats on the porch and the paint

Dripping between them and onto the ground.

You are the dusty feeling when I look up at the sun

And think of the faraway lands begging for our discovery

Looking through and in between the walls of this old house

The basements with their country bass lines and pickled

Cucumbers and folded up lawn furniture in the morning haze.

I look around me now to mosquitoes.

The television’s on and making noise and I can hear it from out here

There’s food in the refrigerator

Clutching and clinging and holding and passing

A moment in time.

Out here with the arched words

You used to hear

And now there’s a garden in your heart

That harvest blankets lazily strewn on the sofa

Cans and bottles hidden everywhere in the house

Putting a sheet up to cover your windows

All the sunglasses and clothes and cologne.

All this is neatly folded by

The laundress of choice.

She works her own hours.