Almanac of What’s Real

A meadow opens to a meadow a level away.

Close to invisible, you keep on every light

inside you. The kind of light that can be sold

like saffron in glass. Once, an orphan at this time,

you went through one door, and fell a hundred

years underground. You’ve internalized this love

and need to reach it. You kiss him before returning

him to the shelf, as you used to kiss the phone—

too soft for this, too peacock eyed. You get illusions

named after you and a secret bon voyage party.

Tonight, you imagine entering door after door,

seamlessly and as without speech as you can.

You and he will never be as alone as you want.

The scene is set from a young age—silk lined, shined silver.