For C.D. Wright
If I was looking at you for the first time again
I would want there to be snow—
in a city absent of birds.
The fiery fields. The fields on fire.
The pastel. The bird. The birthday cake
to celebrate no one in particular.
I would play back the flame
making everything bow in the
house until the entire house burned down.
I believe death has no idea
what to do with children’s toys.
Somewhere there’s a story where everyone
gets what they want.
When my wife is weeping on the bed,
I water all the plants in the house.
I wanted someone to kiss me hard,
to smash my teeth against another’s teeth.
The trees the only witness to their swaying.