Blessing for What Is Absent
To hear the luxury of heat pulse through the air ducts —
its whistles and bumps. To readjust the bedcovers
against uninfected skin. To move the sliding window
all the way to the left and listen to the dogs’ dark chorus
in the well of night — absence of ambulance, jet airplane —
to say I am here, holding it together, somewhat
as branches beat against the roof and water bellows
through cracked drainpipes. How did I arrive here?
A passion for this season’s boots, an art-deco umbrella stand
and so much more — for pleasures of what is absent, no unmarked
graves, no evictions. What is this heaviness imbedded
in our good luck — this sharp, bronzed hinge?