from here we hear

we begin practicing sabbath
by setting no alarms
from here we hear no alarms
from here, we hear morning
from here, we move into a day
not of not doing, but of not scheduled
wilted cucumber vines
sprawled in north garden that only two days ago
were green and thriving
bacterial wilt mo says later
while we toss ripe cucumbers
onto nearby bed mulch
she talks about the shape of her sabbatical year:
less/no time on the internet
a silent retreat
no dating
home for sunset/sunrise
the bowl of jujubes – desert food –
that rachel presents for the partaking post-dinner
chewy and sortof sweet/perfumey
and how when the fruit and my body meet
they agree/like each other
a desertwards beckoning
smell of sunscreen
whose too-chemicalness
makes me something like wistful
in these pre-departure hours
kelsey and i empathizing with/echoing each other
when we both don’t know how to say
exactly what grad school (mfa) did to us
and our stories/our poems
a miniature horse she reminds me
what i jokingly named last night
as the sourch of the mystery animal sounds
not far into the trees outside my window
where the weather usually comes from i say
pointing west
wave swell of sweet/sad seeing
elliot in the gold light
upon back yard stump pen in hand
glancing upwards in the afterdinner quiet
a small window for me to arrive – open – into
on front porch laughing into dusk as we
pass the basket of nouns and clap out
our affirmations

lying on the sharp edges of gravel
under night sky
thunderless lightning
flickers above us
at arms length she says
and later while working on her bike
past midnight
what she really wants to ask is
will you hold me


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