What We Listen To When Love Speaks

While we wait outside the care facility 
we find two cups of tea and sit
on a metallic bench painted red
by the mechanics of the garage nearby.

You ask if I have read Carver’s What We
Talk About When We Talk About Love.
Before I browse the shelves of my memory 
a flock of passerines brings crumbs of Spring 
to the heart. The city changes its attire,
stands wearing a faded evening gown
on every roof and opens its heart-aviary.

I throw away my paper cup. Its trajectory
burns in time like an impression of filament.
In this moment outside the facility 
waiting for the call either from 
the department of death or of life 
I listen to the love in the beats
of the mechanics busy inside their shed.
The noise says that love is alive and 
taking a stroll on a dot in the tract of nothingness.

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