The TV has begun
to croak and whine between us,
harsh as a grackle, bold as day,
bright as a doctor’s waiting room.
Looking across the coffee table,
I go back to the first winter
when for hours, the only sound
was our breathing,
the only light
shone from candles lit
by the bed and sofa,
illuminating your cheek—
a cardinal’s wing.
We would swim slowly inside our stories
sink to the bottom of each other’s
eyes mouths memories,
confessing centuries of wanting in a soft rush
like a first snow.
But all the while, the night owl
was calling to us in our dreaming,
A short poem about the inevitable end of love’s initial intensity.