There were leafy asters like daisies that meant nothing
and a horse no one could ride. We made it our doctrine
to leave mood disorders untreated and drink red wine.
Slow music bored the children we used to be,
but the radio only tuned in to one frequency.
We settled for it. Nights on a braided rug made
for quick sex and unwavering confessions.
The next morning, you dragged me to the window
and showed me birds slick with oil. Most were dying.
I believed every word you said, even when you denied
your part in the spill. It made sense;
the inconvenience of the disaster
fit your avoidance of open ended events.
We studied cloud patterns in the gray sky.
You predicted a heavy snow. All that day, I pictured
caribou crossing white fields darkened with birds.