with the rubber ram of my boot.
The pane, saying solid but not
staying so. Roots glide across
the ground on wooden stomachs.
They try to twine with my fingers,
but I plant my hands in my lap.
When I went to your house, I fell
in love with the way you made
scrambled eggs. You tap the fork
against the shell like you’re playing
dolls: a neighbor with tined thistle
in her hat, a rap at the door. I yawned
over your shoulder, never tired of this.
As you read these words, you have
the brightness so heightened, you can’t
see your face in the screen anymore.
I can’t write any lines about your lover.
He must be nice. I apologize: I wore
your house keys as a necklace, like ivory
tusks tugged from the rooms’ elephant.