One. It is raining.
This is easier to say
than I love you, which
is sometimes the first thing
I know, but the hardest
It is like math in a Li-Young Lee poem,
in which I am two-thirds myself
and two-thirds you and the rest
of this love spills and spills
and makes a mess. It spills
into rooms where the talk
is of architecture, Sanskrit,
what is for dinner or Tibet.
Some lists are innumerable.
It is hard to let things be a mess.
Two: I want to contain things.
To straighten. To label and know them.
Or perhaps I want to surrender to the muddle.
I don’t know. Maybe two is that love
defies a box. I box it. It leaks.
I glass jar it. It weeps. I sweep it into the corner
and try to hide it under the rug, but
light streams in the window as it will
in its gloaming way, and I see all I have done
with my cleaning is to help it disperse
more evenly throughout the room.
And three is that it is still raining.
That between the drops are gaps
where it does not rain, and that these
gaps take up more of the air than the rain,
but we do not call this weather gapping.
The rain has softened the white cardboard boxes
I brought the apricots in. It will be messy now
to carry the weight of their sweetness.
Nothing wants to be contained. I know
that I know I do not know much for certain
besides I love you and the day is wet
and unfolding with rain.