Outside our window the sky carryieth forth
its indigo routines, and the cat addeth
purrs and chirps, but my beloved
closeth the bedroom door on him anyway,
and the year of the rabbit doeth
nothing to usher in seven years
of prosperity and the bent day replayeth itself,
me with trowel and rake in the breathing
dirt and her with pruning shears
in the gnarled branches
of the Anjou pear, and now
each of three candles doeth
to the darkness as you might expect,
and the dead seagull we saw on our walk
doeth its haunting from a damp
ditch two subdivisions away,
and the shapeshifting sunset tangled
in my beloved’s hair doeth
its rosy praise, and the congregation
of mites we trade, with their full
résumés in skin, doeth to fresh sheets,
and rain aching to become a typhoon
doeth to the roof, and the wind
itching to write a tragedy
doeth its gorgeous howling
at the window, and the wet
doeth to the floor and neither
of us hurrieth with a towel to mop it up.
Lance Larsen is the former poet laureate of Utah and has published six poetry collections, most recently Making a Kingdom of It (Tampa). His awards include a Pushcart Prize and an NEA fellowship. He teaches at Brigham Young University and sometimes juggles.
