Every morning on your way into the world
you behead the wilted flowers in the window box,
where the stem meets the stalk.
You don’t tell me what you do while you’re out,
besides that the work is deeply important.
Home alone, I set five fans around me in a wide circle,
lie on my back in the center,
and sing until sunset. It is deeply important
that you do not know this.
Sometimes you call to remind me
that when when nobody’s speaking on the phone,
the signal stops transmitting.
Sometimes you take your dinner
alone, up on the roof.
Finally, you read me to almost-sleep on the porch.
The way I’ve arranged our seats and the timing,
the dryer is always laboring between us,
its clunk clunk clunk a net
that catches most of the poem in mid-air.
Just so you know,
here are the parts that, last night, made it through:
and more wires apart the round and pointed
I write them down and they become new poems.
If you were one to notice these things, you’d notice—
the geraniums have spilled over the sill
and are right this moment crawling away across the lawn.