Sky spends all night paling while we shell
three bags of pistachios, sore fingers, red
where they meet the nails. I flip past
the blue acrylic sheet in your journal.
A wasp whittles away the window sealant.
We drew eleven configurations of the living
room with the new baby grand and still
haven’t settled. I gave you every open door.
You took none. Your wet hair drips on your back
and my shoulder and keeps us cool.