Falling in love is like swallowing grains of sand
to recover the pebble you skipped across the pond

by your childhood home, the ripples setting in
motion every marvel, every horror of your life;

Last night I dreamt of the perfect opening line
to a poem that would, I had no doubt, piece

back together the crumbling world. It was a line
that drew you in, breathless, that made you drop

everything—coffee, that online shopping cart
one click from arriving at your door—and pay…

I have put pen to much that I ought not have
written, including, perhaps, these very words.

I have mistaken Ragweed for Goldenrod,
alleyways for gardens, watched them torn out,

What is left after the groceries are put away?
Dishes on the drying rack, nothing to clean:
all is as it should be, or so they say.