Curb Appeal

A doorway with flowers on either side opens into a blue door

Sometimes two people look like delicate objects,
sound like road-work and thunder.

We duty, gender and tribe in our house. Split blades of grass.
Elope from garden and seed, to stove and head of table.

We look like a honeymoon with no boundaries.
A riot of patterns, draft of wisdom and splintering,
entire palette of laughter and bickering.

Where do I find my voice in here?
Loud enough to dictate to all sides of the room.

Sound out new middles, somewhere
between tempered glass and bones.

I wonder if the neighbors can hear me?
Harvest out of open mouth something lived, suffered,

lined, on some page in a bound book on the shelf.
Where do you put your pleasures and regrets?

Here, we excite an exact whisper.
Shape an old-fashioned desire. Scatter flakes of heat.
Holy our lips and limbs.

Here, we practice language.
Reinvent traditions by listening. Spend hundreds of days

in a volume of caution and sparks,
string of glass bulbs, dangling light on the porch.

How do we decorate a whole life in here?
How do we tell a truth? The windows are open.

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