Thursday Morning

It’s not that I have
to walk through fescue,
covered with dew,
& drive the cows
to the holding pen.  

It’s not that I have
to think about you,
but I do,
& my feelings arouse
again.  

It’s not that I have
to read poetry,
as sunshine filters through
the space between the curtains,
but I read Rilke in German.  

It’s not that I have
to read Rilke in German; the
English version, too,
is on the opposite page, lurking
like a pastor’s sermon 

within that space between us.