The Hobbyists
They plant gardens in flattened patches
–where you used to lay like a handmade quilt–
and send you sweating sacks of overripe fruit
They attend the funerals of strangers
and weep openly against dark wool shoulders
of other lovers, all of them lost or losing
They learn inertia in seven languages
and play their voices back on tape
until interpretation wears to static
They build intricate tangles
just so they can practice at unknotting
They seek like missiles toward the heat
of your present happiness
snub nosed and bullet straight
They can’t leave well enough alone
They have so much to talk about
Finally, they have so much they want to say
