It was nearing the end of winter & we held each other at the narrow edge of the elevated platform. I’d published a few poems & she, she was painting & working on a novel. I was no good at making the move, hardly competent in asking her to dinner. The rising light catching here & there the dirt & grime on the cabinets, the oven door &, now that that life has closed, I’m hardly the hero of the story or, if so, my shirt turned around & inside out. These wilds—a grasshopper on the lip of the wide-mouthed jar—come as far as the screen leading out to the porch, to the citizens of my alley, to the almost lovers carving their names in a tree. Alone, there still rattles the train, taking us that first time to my small apartment where she drew a bath & afterwards, in our mutual haste, we flung every pillow & sheet right to the floor.

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