She waits for something
to happen, or somewhere to go
maybe stations,

remembering Audre
(Amazing Grace sung
so beautifully at her memorial)
moving by underground
standing by maps

trying to keep
hold of knowing
what we had is enough.

Taking our losses peacefully
while reading humorous
polite notices with cursive
aren’t you wonderful
backdrop smells of taxi exhausts,
and the endless
grey rain of February.

Joy is windows
onto forks clipping ceramics
glasses clinking steam
rising scraped dialects
rounding vowels
into tiled blue walls,

macrame hung plants,
orange flowerpot pendants,
lighting up moments,
the pauses, the relief
of daffodiles on tables
as a space between noise.

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