Morning Couplets

We put down our pens and head for airplanes; we disband
for another year in solitary corners of the country.

A puncture in my large toe drains out the nutrients;
My foot sags in puddles dragged behind me.

I take the weather everywhere
a small notebook in my pocket.

We head up island on new wheels
christened by suicide insects and quiet stones in the road.

We strip down our house to make it less ours;
the thought of leaving and others invading this space.

Agreements made, subject to time and money,
we wake each day to find out if we won.

A house at the end of a street waits for us
to enter, first in our dreams and then with solid, waking steps.

Our cats go outside without restraints,
a balancing act of trust and independence.

One falls off the balcony, clawing at the air all the way down
perhaps he wonders, how did this happen? How did I get here?

A series of days spent, filling large bins
with our belongings to keep and to purge.