On the Five Year Anniversary of a Day Five Years Ago

When I met you I was —

I try to remember

the person who walked with

my face. Before there was

you, it was a different time

of day. The sun scattered in

other patterns through windows

on opposite sides of a house.

There are very nice pleasures

at dawn, a bright morning. Also

golden hours. And long evenings.

Here we are at the clear hour of

a blameless summer day.

We’ve already set our habits.

You’ve had your coffee, cooked

my breakfast. I stretched,

reached for a few kisses, and off

we step, palm to palm, down from

the front porch stoop, and into

our lives we choose

again and again.


When my person comes home late,

and I have the choice:

to curl into sleep I know is good

or into their arms and conspiratorial

whispers, I almost always forget

the tired days, my solemn vow

to crawl into dreams as soon as I can.

In the face of the vows we keep

together. I am forgetting

how it felt to be lonesome

first and foremost. I am able

to get by with fewer dreams

now that I am not all longing.