ost evenings last August or an August before that

rich red sauce bubbles on the stove—

spicy curls of steam are sneaking,

sneak from beneath the pot’s slanted lid.

Cornhusk eyes gleam between the geraniums, night owl

perched on the lip of the paint chipped flower-box.

Garden days have produced the most fruitful suppers,

lined long wooden tables in squash, corn, tomatoes.

Our stereo drips fuzzy tones—words are like sour water,

our barn’s leaky faucet. His hands clutch her waist,

Her skirt’s petals, these strange pleats that keep evening’s beat.

Failing floorboards and the crickets creek

(in dissonance joins the furnace groan.)

Tonight is a symphony:

we crouch on carpeted stairs.

But ten eyes between railings we are—they sway back

and forth—sway they on the cheap linoleum.

hildren we were

architects of domed homes. Forgetting the lack

of photographs and thermostats, our ceilings glittered

in the frosted black. Living rooms of our own design,

we huddled inside, round cheeks colored by

descending whitened night. Seen breath we had

mittened hands and cold noses.

On fogged windows now we watch our sighs—

what grey skies outside are projecting high,

the image of some fine lines:

we have drawn ourselves inside.

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