Four O’Clock on Sunday

What would I ever do but

Unravel you;

Find the little pieces of sand swept under the front door carpet,

Sweep them out and make sense of them

And the halos of light they magnify in your rooms;

Understand the small patterns in the sheets that

Outline softly the places where your body must have alighted,

Chasing down the memory

Of the cold tile floors we padded our socked feet across anxiously,

Hysterical at the quiet sound of our small gasps of air against

The way too cold thermostat breaths.

We sang to each other on the

Old road and I think you know,

I want to untangle you;

Reason with your insignificant details and make them significant.

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