Domestic Violence

We dangle our feet from your balcony,

entranced by some cheap crystal prisms knocking

the light around. You know too many statistics:

one out of every eight, two out of every ten,

and then there are the more complicated

calculations. After a while, even the maple leaves

seem latent with intent, the wind invested with some

ulterior motive. In turn I’ve taken so many notes,

about the rain that can’t be swept, the water

that can’t be worded. It’s so easy to over-translate

an open window and mistranslate the spring.

Swimming Pool

Brand new, its old
promise in possession

by the garden of a
palpable equipoise.

The sky, overgrown
with a western

brand of sunlight,
fritters away

excessive time
on a surface subject

to the wind’s every
passing whim.

It tides us over,
this backwater,

this lunatic blue
in lock down.