Mondays need poems like Fridays need wine. Two short ones.
desires for nothing
can be held
in the hard white
case of ribs.
I am keeping a tally here,
a long one in a leather-bound journal,
keeping a tally of things I’ve seen.
Each rare bird and each common one,
each fat bee hovering around
the swollen centers of peonies
and poppies, each time you say,
“honey” and “love,” each time
we eat olives, drink tea, which kinds,
each sticky, breezy summer morning
and the winters walking through the woods,
heavy boots shattering the fragile frosty ground,
each kiss and cloud and cicada summer.
And if anyone finds this, if anyone
reads this, if anyone says, yes, this,
this is the thing to recreate, this, you, us