I fall in love. I never do.
I wave my hand and blur the world,
say: Tell me everything,
but do it slowly,
so we still have things to tell
when we are old.
Chase nostalgia round a cereal bowl,
for things we never even had,
for things that haven’t happened,
yet: children in a swimming pool;
families with ice cream, side-by-side
on benches; a patrol boat putters past;
a group on a porch for a photo laughs;
there are ducks, being ducks.
I hide my keys so I won’t throw them in the river.
I wouldn’t, but worry I will.
Tell me, do you know how that is?
You said, am I hurting you?
And I should have said, not yet.
Now the wind flaps the flags too hard;
the group laughs too loud;
the children in the pool after dark
are too much. Now everything has turned,
too: You took a can opener to my heart,
see? Now I feel everything.
Things always end before they start.
I have no practice at the middle.
So I beg you:
tell me everything,