Even our homes tire of us—
the once-bold area rugs,
red madder root patterns bleeding

from light they lay in
year after year, tread upon and admired
in equal measure. Dirt ground into tile

seals secrets like kisses, like passion
flowers in the overgrown yard
we debrided like a wound, suturing

a new landscape when our hands flew in and out
of pots, when no heat could make us stop,
until we just gave up. Frayed edges

fill familiar rooms—
in each corner, a context
begs forgiveness, justifies

those times we dug into our digs
before the walls closed in
and off, like power

flipped. We weren’t at fault for wanting
envelopes in which to hide, to live,
make work our life, make love

to last forever. We were blameless believing
occupations could belie transience.
We were blips. We know this now.