is the bluebird on the line
that catches the eye

the clothes hung up outside
for the first time

the spring that never quite arrives

Yours is the icon on the desk
that’s traveled from house

to house between the person you are
& the person you once were

the question, in the morning,
of what translation to buy

& the internet search
for Icelandic birds, the lists

of what to pack for the trip
you didn’t expect

Yours are the emails you’ve written
in your head, & the ones you send

the house in another place
you might still own & the one

where you write your poems

Yours is the dream in the night
of skin against skin, the lightning

the thunder, the way the stars
are still there even

when you can’t see them

Yours is the tree full of leaves,
the angel with the loosened tongue

& the poppies drying in a slice
of sun though the clouds may return

after only a moment