I said. The wind
lifted the word and blew
it through the birches into smaller yesses
Hitched bicycle ride, my hands
on your waist, soles skimming the road
in the bends.
What we wore will be one of those tellings
that even a latent, erasing disease
never steals. In tune like a robin and robin, a doorbell
and creak of the stairs.
Say love is the ship coming in.
Say the grave eyes of the birch trees
watched us go. How long
had we stood on the pier? Gulls squalled.
We’d outgrown what we packed.