Fog
all these buildings I can’t
see the top of in November
at 5:30 pm sun’s done for
the day I’m wearing a light jacket
I’m buying expensive yarn for
future scarves I’ve fallen in
love already a couple times tonight
the fog isn’t it so talented
at floating my love look I’m
wrapped in blankets for you
I’m chopping vegetables and placing
them in a bowl for you
You arrive with craft
beer in your backpack
we eat on the yoga mat
the mice in the walls circle
us while we sleep
Stick
the upstairs neighbors rearrange
their furniture every evening I
tug at this image of you in a tank
top barefoot king of the floorboards
you are throwing a stick
to a dog you trained to come back
every time you find something
new in my bookcase my desk my
body tell me what you ate today
then let’s rearrange
the
polka dots on my comforter
Windows
against the sheets you are all angles
and cold bones we lie not really touching
a thin breeze through the window that
never really closes old buildings man you
say the street makes orange squares
on my wall you say it’s what Rothko
painted windows never really change
do they over the years I cry into
grocery lists tonight’s wine tomorrow’s
orange juice inked to my face
Allison Becker lives in Brooklyn, works at a magazine and a coffee shop, and seriously loves poodles.