Poems About L

I mean the way he folds the map even though the phone knows where we are. I mean the scar above his eyebrow

I write you letters in my head on the bus, in the shower, in the three seconds

The windows fog with everything we've made— the stew, the bread, the kettle's weary sigh— and past the glass the garden starts to fade

Even now, when nothing seems to hold, Nothing keeps the dark from pressing close— Dawn is just a rumor, barely told,