Report from the Field

Anagrams lean
in the doorway
like afternoon.

Squint and they
rearrange themselves
into the lunch menu.

The end of the street
beckons
and is a bookstore
and is open
until 7.

Please tell me there
is time.

We walk out
together and
the world knows.

We stay home
and perch on the
edges of the furniture.
It becomes harder
to sit through a meal.

Winter finally came
and it was not
heavy or light.
Darkness at five.
Boots at the entrance way.

I sighed
because the wind did,

began reading
books that happened
when prose moved slower.

Summer is when I want
everyone to talk.