the seat, the leaves, the squirrel, the flowers

1
From this distance, a handmade paddle and paddle boat,
the sound of waves to the shore in the early evening
while Venus or a waxing moon appears
is almost an imagined thing.
This is what distance does to a finite weathered body.

2
When I was much younger there was a girl with whom
I had wine with at the rooftop of an apartment.
No moon, not even a folding chair, but a clothesline 
of damp clothes behind us. A concrete step of some sort
and there we were -- while I was seated.

Like in the movies, you know, so I now try every time
to substitute the word to love.

3
Do women used to (always) think of "marry"? 
Do they count people they (once) love?

4
I've had a drink a number of nights with the person
one woman slept with, loved with. It was all very well. 
The entire time I could see them in my mind's eye 
and I wanted violence
I held the clear glass, there was lemon, salt, rocks.
And I wiped off the grin on his face.

5
In my thirties, I thought of "marry".

It meant sitting, chair, porch, dusk or early evening
with a woman I am sharing quiet with.

6
She sends a photo of her green garden.
From where I am, the leaves are falling.
The squirrels are brave. Because they do not hibernate.
Flowers know the number of days even though
no one bothers to ask.

7
There is a back pain. There is 
an invitation to read a poem. I wrote 
a poem about a body. A body. A body.