Each day our pixels pack their bags and travel
across that distance measured more in hours
than miles. My evening reaches toward your night.
It’s clear and calm here; there, sporadic showers
spatter the windowpanes with their failed flight.
I want to describe how the leafed and needled dusk
crosses my lawn, though your manner now is brusque,
tinged with anger and exhaustion (which
I know too well myself). What good is a voice
when there’s cooking and dishes, a dog to walk?
Yet these calls usually help. Sure, we might bitch
or pout, but just the other’s background noise
is enough to soothe. Sometimes we sit and talk,
imagining one couch. This can’t unravel.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 42 Number 5, on page 29
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