What is there to say? You of all people
understand: there is no shortage of ways
to be quiet together in the car.

You detected my oppressive guilt
before I could perform it. That’s your own
somber sleight of hand.

My error is the assumption
of what I’ll always find: sunken
eyes waiting by the window, gray braids,
bay tree in the yard, day on the neck,
perfect mountain, with perfect hands.

It is easy to sleep on someone's
wound. You made it easy to sleep on yours.
It foams inside me,
like a permanent sore throat,
or having swallowed a bird.

Then you sit on the edge of the bed,
one of your three thousand ways
of saying I forgive you.

Now, if I have squandered time,
I will say this: I spent my adolescence
searching for the unprecedented in your history,
giving you back your hair,
giving you what you want.
There I found

the best summer of my life.