warning sirens
wail again at the power plant
and I can no longer see
the stars. I have waited too long
to write
               and, for that, I am sorry.

Ivy clings to the side
of the house                    the roof
and I don’t know how to
make it stop.

The light in the bathroom
has been out for weeks and it’s
too high for me              to touch
even when I jump. Do you

                              string lights
when we walked late that night
under redwoods, talking
of danger            testing small bombs

in the language between us,
how easily our words split
a house              a lip,
the hour gone cold, how beautiful
you were,                          moonlight
sharpening inside your mouth.

I am sorry
I used to think                 of my body
as the only thing I could give,
a garden of orange flowers.
Let them wait.
They hunger in the shade.