The air smells soft today and of the past,
redbuds dispersing their ruby secrets,
myself among them. I kept the body
taut with thirst, so that it thrived without.
Then, this new man, suspect as always, showed
up, glinting like he knew which songs I liked.
What I know of him fits within my palms:
his twin scars but not their cause. His lamb’s wool
voice and canvas shoes. A lavender net.
What I know of love fits inside my mouth.
The air smells soft today and of the past.
I robe myself in gray and green.
Some come to us in the perfection
of their frailty, some leave us by it.