The universe ends
or is supposed to. It lives
in your bed– mornings tangled
with laughter. In a week you will move
to Florida. A week ago we swayed
on swings away and toward each other.
A fling from disorder, we are no longer bound
to orbit. Still, I swat the air
in your fourth-floor apartment
overlooking the river to follow its movement
to determine when a body is real
and to what mouth it goes. For you,
it’s an airport. Until then, we hike
through forests building tree forts
to wooden-house our hearts.
At night, I search the stars for words
but can’t make sentences you tell me are there.
All I find is the slow motion of time,
then distance– since time’s beginning,
the universe took many small steps toward us
so let’s walk that way together.
If you lose me from great distance,
I will build a bridge so short
you’ll be right here from that far away.
(originally published in The Write Place at the Write Time, Summer 2017)