The other day I packed and
unpacked in the same room
in the same day. We count
on our ribs the numbers of times
we get on planes,
we stay as young as clouds
but unstoppable
with the weather systems
that once kept me from her:
everything has changed,
or nothing has changed.
leaves of bursting orange
pry for chlorophyll;
each time we bleed
beautifully with the
foliage but it happens
all the time is all I mean.
I want nothing more than to see
you and her, there's something
nobody gets with how many decades
between us I pack very little:
out west it's a little soap, sturdy shoes.
I breathe slow, the mountain air stops
the whistling of our gasps, together
out east it's harder to inhale
but easier to feel loved.
everything has changed,
nothing has changed. The book
about flight is helping, perhaps
I flew to you through Vermont,
then Canada, past storm clouds and
everything would not stop shaking.
I played Depression Cherry and ordered
more wine; I would not ever try to
capture you, she says, my hands
to my face, waiting for the
cabin to strike earth.
Nothing changes, I am mixing up scents again.
Everything changes, I am breathing through my eyes
then tasting with my ears, I feel you with
my nose and my hands looked straight at her—
to tell me everything I have heard before.