We let the day balm,
unhem warm rains,
in the watery light,
wander to the sink.
Flavoring your hair
with cola oil, I encounter
missed scents
behind your left ear,
writ-small, years-full of young will.
Through the wall, a new song
on the radio—We are difficult to catch
but real. We are lizards on the windowsill.
We weigh heavy names
for light things
in our brains, smooth as fish
in a wash, slip finger-deep
into cream pots—We are difficult to catch
but real. We are lizards on the windowsill.
You’re a new song on the radio.
I’m letting the upstairs bath overflow.