I want to write you

a quiet poem, calm as

swing sets in a breeze,

 

clotheslines rustling,

or a train station sleeping,

ten till 4am,

 

newspapers rolling

down empty streets, Chaplin films

in bed, rooftop rain,

 

a slow ceiling fan

in another room, cats and kids

asleep and dreaming,

 

mute as dinner plates

the next morning, or new year's

decor days later,

 

the slow moment when

lift equals weight, a balloon

sinks to eye level.