They seem a troubled memory
of old socks and shoes thrown away
last winter. Along with coffee granules
heaped upon our struggling city garden.
Amongst the tired lemons squeezed
of their zing.
I've followed the contours
of grass and gravel, came to know
each like a neighbour: slightly aloof
yet friendly, a reserved smile and nod
in helpless orbit.
We are stars, you said to me.
when every song sang of coming light,
of mercurial storms bringing puddles
to stomp on. Splash, and the ensuing solace
of laughter. Growth, a diadem for your brow
and a kiss on your nose.
We are bones, I say to you.
in a locket.
It's October now
and I've swept
the kitchen clean. Each sauce-stain
and oily residue the fruit of so many
living so closely. All of us, in our rooms,
with our own philosophies. A piano plays
next door, upstairs a communion
of hurried noise.
In November, I'll be twenty-seven.
In December, this year will turn
into another poem.