Dim evenings coated in shadow
carve into bedside tables
enchanted carpentry old eucalyptus
I almost feel modest about it
roses only sing half of each verse
as they punctuate roadsides
on hills tucked in our valley
the fabric is the conjunction
call it style or call it what we do
this night I weave bits of the passing day
snips of nodding aster and cow lily
while you lay waiting on the couch
were we both born in occupied territory
perhaps blouson-sleeves would not
fall across your face and set me dreaming
*
How we could ever miss daylight
mists clearing from the coast in early hours
the slow flow of elderberry tea and parity abide
this house
sleepy enterprises mark our making
cows stand along the enclosure
assessing their own solemn limits
back in our cottage I sleep drink
ginger gin fizz
smile
for your absence fashion want
weave long fingers through my dark hair
etched poppies’ syncopate beats
our trellis out back bends with the weight
*
Gray walls fail to bring quiet in the evening
footsteps on the street permeate the enclosure
and she dreams each night of the coast
crushed shells speak of lost cities
at least she likes to imagine it that way
tracing the spine of burnt hills in her brain’s mapping
a few oceans away he embarks
or did hours ago now that it is far past noon
in the places she used to inhabit where
beaches fill with vacationers and so the city
although full seems to wait
walled in the forested gorge
upriver she hears whispers from the Pacific
belated by five years
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