from the patio, my body
twinges, your hands pressed to the glass
of the sliding door, our marriage much like this
when you see the minor injury that will take me
many weeks to overcome, the irritation more
than the pain, and I see it
in your eyes, the injury that will take us
away from ourselves, the way the glass door
keeps us apart, the way the leaves are drained
from the wheelbarrow into the empty field not far enough
from the house to stop the wind from spilling them back
into our lives like the tissue that grows, both ornamental
and necessary, over wounds.

– David Swerdlow