I wished I wasn’t so sealed off from the moment of review.

 

I also wished I watched you sleep more

 

than I do, watch you all sleep more than we do.

 

I’m dazzled again by all the breakups of the day:

 

The lights are bright. Do I want one? Do I want another? 

 

How often do I mash against something and stick?

 

The cardinal outside looks beautiful

 

but sounds like a mess. The fruit flies

 

finally look sick, circling my face,

 

trying their very best to leave the world

 

as viciously as possible. Trillions and trillions of

 

vinegar deaths.

 

When the window was still somehow left open 

 

and the temperatures dropped, I could’ve sat listening

 

longer than I ever knew possible to tree fucking 

 

holding on to wind and wind holding onto tree, but instead 

 

the lousiest art studies

 

at this weird, dumbed down distance,

 

the whole time thinking it poked through

 

luxury, only buried and still lost 

 

spending a god damned fortune far from home.

 

My best attention came last night when I helped my son 

 

pull his dry clean underwear over his thighs,

 

ass wet from the shower.

 

There was some kind of discussion about difficulty,

 

the kind that you notice as it’s happening

 

the kind you can feel passing away so it stays glorious 

 

and light, owned, really, to a point, and then given back

 

to the undergrowth that blooms quiet one day into shock.

 

I watered the flowers out front, 

 

thought nothing more than holding his waistband still,

 

watching his legs and arms struggle 

 

to finally make himself comfortable, and then winter

 

and how these flowers he planted months ago

 

will soon be gone.

 

I think I’m making sense now.