First things: I string cottonwood popcorn as garland to hang on the
window sills. Then, I vacuum the whole place, top to bottom, the
crumbs diminishing willfully. The bed gets made, the edges
smoothed. Nightclothes to the corner, hung, for later. Pancakes in the
pan – butter crisp and fluffy. I slice extra fruit for finish – blueberries,
strawberries, thick wedges of banana. It is another day.  

Middle things: Somebody calls and we exchange notes on the
morning, stories of closeness and of all the years in the distance. It
reminds me of water and how I can’t stop drinking this cool liquid
snow. I switch the AC on for 20 minutes to bring down the heat,
control it to a simmer, a hum beneath my thoughts so they can
breathe a minute. So the warm flesh of my legs can find enough relief
to stretch and walk a bit in the neighborhood, back and forth pacing
with no destination. Just thoughts. Just thinking. Everyone’s breath a
series of clouds I escape through, to capture the sunscape that lingers
beyond our doubts. June’s music brings a certain cheer to promise, an
off-yellow portent for the periwinkle things to come.  

Night things: Softly, I listen. The steady beat of the late night hour
stumbles outside my door. I take all the care I can not to shake it
further. I breathe gently, the shallow heat of midnight warms my lips
and keeps my lungs in focus. My heart an endless flutter of wanting,
quickened yet steady, hard but forever. After a minute, I listen to it
ease on by, using the creak of the hinges to push off against the
darkness. It slices against the chair rail and the baseboards,
deepening its groove further on down the hardwood hall. The groan
of the rafters rocks me back to sleep, reminding me our wanting
comes from a deeper place – like a snow day in June or how we were
built by architects. Those experts of arch work who know the truth is
in the curves we crave to hold us together.