In the baseboard gap between
your past and my future,
I wish you the citrus tease of magnolia
I unhinge its stubborn finger and
crack it with an explosion of
mourning doves, squeaky
wingflaps whispering the
top of my head I
did not expect this,
did not expect the pillow of your kiss,
the golden frame of hair under the
streetlight, the backward glance.
I rest my hand along mustard stucco arches,
your three-way turn, the flash of a
hand under glass, my arm rising in the air,
one half of a capital T.