My love is as
Still tracking, on your laser device, grunt-songs full of back-chat;
easy to pick apart, if I wanted to, like a well-stewed chicken.
Ill-suited, my grandmother would say, and she said it freely.
Please, please, weve wrestled stubbornness enough; were in
love, yes? Ill agree to listen more carefully, though clatter
kept quieter would help me in my driftiness, which I also love,
proving, probably, I am the egotist you always suspected.
Except for when I drift beside you, two canoes in the moonlight,
carrying on a conversation aimless and inevitable as a river.
Rest works, in other words, when work rests. Kingfishers
are hallmarks for us, zig-zagging along the Allagash, where loons
expressed loneliness well enough, where moose and bear
brightened and whittled our reflexescrested birds marked days
nights floated, the sounds of sleep soughing through our tent.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 39 | Winter 2013