Last July

Last July

All we will have to show for this:
the coffee stain on your counter top, and a dry
crumb of bread.

You lie on my bed one morning
and don't look my way—
these gazes don't stay—yellow sheets
          curling on the floor.

I watch outside: a plastic bag
dances on grass.           Who knows:
a year from now fire

might start
in the center of my canary bed and eat outward
and light the house not lonely anymore, and you

might be there.
You might.                     All I know

is I hate
how these yellow sheets look lying there, the stain
the coffee cup leaves on the countertop,
          the mess we always make.
All I know

is I love
you lying on my bed,

your bare back towards me,
wing-muscles resting,
green wings just beginning
           to unfurl.