/ /

They cross the threshold
of our humming house & we fold our wings, falling

drowsy as geese, nuptial
in the window’s evening flare. Your parents now:

at the couch, settling
the floor, shrugging their ghosts to the steaming tiles.

I could rise, fruit
in boxes mellowing the air behind. I could

be gone, not
sit, speaking, with the ones

you love, at our hearth,
brooding to dreams silent as the balm

of an apple, longevity
alighted, close, a roost, breathing, lying, at hand.