Our Songs

are about hard-earned blank stares
or the tulip bulbs I planted while you mowed

You clipped stems too close to dirt,
except you always want to touch dirt

We are fucking up our yard in slow lines
past the window for planting

There is a brief dig against the garage plasterboard
A mouse punctures leftover seeds

Later, our songs will steal the dim light
from your teeth during the real night

It bothers us both tremendously