as though I have what to do
my mind is the fragrance of a can
it held tomato salad
my hand is in the shape of yours
I too brought impressions of dinner
home from her home
you like to ask me how they seemed
I like it when you ask
and we talk about it
it’s the bridge into being just a pair again
their dining room is dark pink
and so pinkens to me as we eat
and gets its pink in things
I remember white whipped cream as rose
I meant to wish leaving their house
our air
my first open end
since the start of dinner
sometimes a house is too much a house
for me a light is in the shape of your eye
it’s on a car beaming its heads
cops pulled up to stop a party noise
walking home it’s too cold
to hold hands
when I’m just me and meet sleep
its pink is an early sky of half-uncles
and your mother’s cousins
and the childhood friends of my mom
she and one of them hover in ice skates
she kicked through drywall to get
or she was kicked or kicked with the skates on
I have an impression that’s my mom
animated from a picture where she’s four
crying on dog-grey cement her dad made
in the basement of the house
he built around them for buyers
she wanted the ice skates
because they lived in a basement
she wants me to come home this year
because I’m with you
and she can be the third again
and so the first
except you and I fill rooms
that need us more
with a river of cornered air
like we open a hole and beam it from space
between people who trust a conduit
firm as the other’s breath