I brought you flowers but

they were from the supermarket, unlabeled,

and I couldn’t tell you what they were.

I left them on the porch

of the address you told me to find you at

if I ever felt brave some big-mooned night.

The porch was old-blood red

or plain brown. It was a moonless night and maybe

that’s why I didn’t call you outside — the moon

wasn’t what you had demanded it be. What’s more,

the porch was a colour, some colour

and I couldn’t tell you what it was.


I walked home across the park

with the squeaking see-saw that you showed me

the second time we ate cold dinner from the supermarket


I walked over the bridge, over the thin river near your place

and thought that maybe I would write you tomorrow

to ask how full the river was. I thought

how it was only a small thing, this river

that separated my side of the suburb from yours.

Do you know what the river is called?

It is only 241 long and quiet steps

from your porch.

So I won’t ask.

It is just another body of water

that you have words for, but that

I couldn’t tell you the name of.





Image by Ulrich Peters


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