Sunday

I know the world is spoken into life. Leaves in conversation with power lines they’re coiled around. I know, too, that what is beautiful is unnecessary: I think, what are the freckles on her shoulders for? I drive to a courthouse in a nearby town and imagine another life—one in which I’m a calm, competent man named Ed who says little. I have short hair. I speak in short sentences. Mornings, I watch the coffee boil. Wait until it overflows. I want to see the spilling rivulets run down, hear the stove hiss with satisfaction, feel the pleasure of error, too-muchness in the quiet blue morning dark. And carry two small white cups upstairs, their edges clattering against each other, talking.