page 125

Blown Glass

We walked the long long road
alone—except for each other.
Our voices try out the air.

From a safe distance we
attend the flame. As blue
as water in tin weather.

The kettle sings and sings
to itself. The word ‘kiss’
is blown like glass.

We asked the glass blower
but he advised No.
We each withdraw to short mentions.

The day—like so many others’
better halves—is already better
than either of us.