I.
I used to fall in love
once a week—the girl
with mismatched socks, an old gent
reading Dante at Dunkin’ Donuts,
the lady in fuzzy duck slippers
wheeling a cart at Wegmans.
I’ve courted cirrus clouds,
proposed to coastlines,
married the Atlantic in a private ceremony.
Once I loved
a fisherman, glass blower,
animal rescue volunteer.
II.
The woman at the auto repair shop
has an aborted fetus screensaver.
The manager at the hardware store
mounted a small arsenal on his office wall.
He helped me find the exact tool.
She gave me a break on a loaner.
Cruelty clusters
in bookstores and at newsstands,
bloats airwaves.
The country is closing.
I need eyes on this.
Mariposa lilies and cosmos
scorch the trail behind my house.
I’m not certain autumn will return
unless I push for it.
I plant no bulbs,
wait to see what awakens.
