It Is Easier to Take Steps in Your Head
Shoes must be put on, then replaced, each pair, each sole. Doors must be unlocked. As mortar and pestle grind away, the crusher acknowledges the person to be served. The tastebuds bloom. Heavy lifting requires bending at the knee. Spring is the cliché we love because flowers quell intensity. As I dream of your voice flowing along the ribbon, pigeons circle the dirt in no particular order.
A phone hangs on its cord,
listens to the wind.
I will not cross the bridge looking for you.
I will not call—like the dead,
you do not need any kind of lecture.
My flowers are still on your table,
your letter in my desk.
The trees, in the meantime,
practice their golden rule.