I’ve covered the bookshelf
                                with amber outside
christmas lights,                     even though it’s June. Tonight,
we watch the light     dance from      book to book.
Half made bed of a house,
    soft dark backyard
of inside us, insular. What I’ve learned
about marriage
so far is that there is no need for two hammers
in the house. I got rid        of my kitchen table

as simple as shaking my head,
l oo sening fr o m
my hair

the mistaken light n ing bugs.
& you
     scoop the shiny tadpoles
from my eyes
& ask Do you really need
two of these? I’m not sure
except to say       perhaps you’re right, I’ve seen enough
already. Except to say, I’ve always
had them. In another life

we might watch our children
all christmas, no bookcase.
In this timeline, we separate
our cats by bedroom.

We plot
our next moves    together. I don’t
have to tell you
every memory
I carry
for you to know me better. I could
skip over
the kitchen entirely. 
             Tables
     & houses
  & marriages could loosen themselves
into nothingness,
the
    lightest   
 l  o   v  e.