In the beginning, everything means everything:
the latticed pie that leaked in the oven
and his manner of greeting. What words chosen
for not now, but soon. An entire future based on a plate of sardines,
the moon over Battery Park, rhubarb out of season.
The hoping more than the thing attached.
In the beginning, we believe we have made a new language.
When I tell him I have been rearranged, internally,
like a rubix cube twisted into planes of pure color,
that I’ve finally unpuzzled my life, he asks for the check.
Hand on my waist, he guides me home, says,
speaking of rearranging your insides.
I rotate, blushing, to unsolve myself.
It doesn’t matter that he has missed the point—
I believe one thing can live inside the other.