You were in the living room furrowing your eyebrows,
fussing over a drawing you’d cut from a magazine.
There is the scent of you in my bedroom still
where I was listening to a record from France
that you brought me from your time there. You
had that sundress on, the one I said reminds me of
the girls in Chapel Hill, most of whom I never I knew,
and you got mad at the scissors you were using and say
something like dammit it’s not right. What’s not right?
Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, baby, nothing’s wrong, I say,
that’s the most beautiful thing you’ve said all day. We
drank beers that afternoon on the porch until the sunset.
You can’t beat it, that you and me thing, you can’t beat it.
You just can’t beat it, that thing, you know what I’m saying?