The Paris Review

It could feel good to stare at numbers 
all day, another job but I can’t name any; 
still, on a scale of dismal to dazzling, 

we should at least aim for a bit of all right— 
just keep your examples to yourself 
or we can’t remove them. If you wind 

up with a window and sun I’ll get you 
something that never dies; it’s part 
of this conversation we’re conceiving— 

no initials, only terminals, where nobody 
looks until they need to. How many out- 
sized ’50s-cartoon kisses popped up there, 

not the ones the papers are buzzing about 
and never on a dare. There was a dictionary 
on my lap and a word you wanted but 

it was too much. If we’re lucky we will 
find shame and collaborations and even 
more fruitful collaborations and lack 

of discretion and dead lobsters strewn 
across fields to make the crops grow. 
One thing usually true about history, 

it’s embarrassing. And by which I mean 
I’ve written another letter to you in my sleep 
about the time I almost managed to swim, 

fully clothed, across the blacked-out bay. I want 
it lush all around and so long as bigger trees 
make me dizzy, I will find you but not today.