Listen: I was walking my usual route
distracted by the spring influx
of song sparrows. Did you know
that each male builds his own repertoire—
first copied, then changed
over a lifetime—a structure with variation?
I was listening
to the small drab birds inventing their singular phrases
when I looked around and didn’t know
where I was—
the houses not right, the gardens
not the ones I knew,
the pitch of the street a little off.
A moment of panic
until I realized I’d only missed
my usual turning half a block before.
It’s all so late for expectations.
Where has love gotten to?
Kyle’s the only one, besides
you, who kisses me full on the mouth.
It’s a greeting, not
meant to be sexy. Still, I appreciate
the not holding back of a friend.
I don’t take it lightly.
When you and I say goodnight, you’re leaning
toward me, one hand on your walking stick,
and we make a joke of it, kissing one, two, three,
maybe four times, maybe even five or six
until one of us stops and then
the other puckers up again
and that’s a reason to laugh and have more—
that’s something, isn’t it?