& other mistranslations

There is something dreadfully earnest

In the stack of unread books,

The stack of new promises, and

Empty mornings.

In the evenings, suddenly struck cold,

The fog rolls in from the harbour:

The sound of your voice; the sound of your breath

In the spaces between the sound of your voice

Rolls around in the back of my mouth.

(When we are together, we become

stick-figure sketches,

Hopelessly forgetting Ourselves.)

I try to think of verbs that I would like to be –

To be engaged in the action of the word –

Because it is always better to be the verb than the noun,

(Or even worse, the adjective).

The cradling of the sheets, the fluttering of the

Curtains, the forgetting of things. Not urn, or willow.

Not salt, or barnacle, or bridge.

Not hopeful, or dove-gray, or earnest.