III.
Because in all our extremes we are still
in the midst of falling. Because we kiss
each other good-bye and grief practices
humming to itself for years. A simpler
plot revolves as she returns the tulips
to their pots, the wool blankets to their
bed. Accidents come to those who wait.
Gradually, love dreads the anatomical sky,
its allusions to blue, the repetition of
space moving away.