my baby turned down the bed for me

i remember you
when i bite eucalyptus leaves from the tree
walking toward a house of the same color
thinking about the palms of your feet
and the soles of your hands

i put you to sleep
in a memory of sitcom laughter

...

once i drove two hours
to wait for you in the sun
i wore a white skirt
and fell asleep on your stomach
you used me as an arm rest
something for books to sit on

when you came back from the hospital
you were a lot of things--
the absence of soap and water,
some calm disposition i feared
had been instilled in you too late

the road curled under me
in agreement

something for air

i was thinking of a poem
while sleeping in the window room
the house painters were all looking through

all i could think
was "this would make a good story
if i wasn't bothered"

but i wasn't
and i'm still not