One day, you say the sun must be dumbstruck
to see me waking so late. I can’t abide 

the world’s accumulation of voices and alarms—
feel most at ease when the house is daubed 

in morning darkness and sunlight seeps 
through acute angles of purple leaf plum. 

We drive into mountains on a Sunday, dogs 
gazing out windows, sensing our destination. 

I wonder sometimes if you miss them: parties, 
guests streaming through your kitchen. 

You were an eager host in days we still behaved 
as individuals. To what degree do I weigh you down? 

(Do not say, and I’ll not ask.) We act often now 
as one body—I know your Chinese takeout order 

by heart, you change the station until we’re both happy 
to land on Van Morrison. Parked at the creek, 

you follow our dogs mid-stream and anchor to a rock. 
Grinning, your face records a full measure 

of sunlight. You call out while I kneel on the bank
beneath a boulder’s spire—cool cathedral

casting voiceless shadows over ground: one-half 
the magnetic marriage of silence and sound.