I don’t understand why this woman

crushes ice into a glass, adds

honey, mint, and strong dark tea,

then brings the glass to me;

or why she sings, self-consciously,

when she believes I’m watching

the bowcurve of her sunburned collarbone

as she moves between the bedroom

and the bath. And I can’t

imagine what she thinks

is worth staying around for

after we’ve made love or eaten dinner,

after we’ve taken our walk

a long ways in one direction

and talked ourselves so thoroughly 

inside out,

no urgency for speech remains.

Birds settle in the trees,

and this pale, sinking,

salmon colored light

lingers inordinately

all over the horizon 

while I get a great desire

to quit while I’m ahead,

take the car from the garage and go

zoom, zoom, around the bend

before I shatter everything

from nervousness that anything

can last.  If things are given time,

they take on weight.

They are commissioned.

Without a word, one day

they will require loyalty.