every day—the charm and the
prison from your winter boots on the at the front door
and the smooth hilly up of your voice
from your room.
i think my God can she tell a story
like no woman could.
i think about kissing your forehead
when you are ill in bed; making omelets for dinner;
driving to Ypsi to hear the boy you once made love to
make love to my ears; driving to New York
to hear the reason you wish you were black.
you've laid your roots
and mine are shriveling—
lest we go to Vermont
and plant maple trees together:
i'll make you dinner and you can sing me a song.