In the mind’s silo, just a few husks:
cold slab of a bed where we never wore a stitch,
huddled under the covers reading Raymond Carver
in the voice of Henry Kissinger. Laughing like brother and sister.
Falling in love with you, truly falling, like you’d plunked me
right between the eyes with a little rubber hammer,
the kind doctors use. Small house on a farm. The dog drunk on dirt
from tunneling after moles. Eau de you was wet
paperbacks and corn.