Aubade Where Things Are Pretty Good Actually 

The idea that every fallen leaf is not unique, 
		reduced into a name like maple 
and understood as simple variation on a theme,
		is just a trick of speaking — 
in the swollen morning after love, there is space 
		in my attention for every oak and birch, 
each seed carried off by the particulars of an hour 
		no one foresaw. It was want 
that woke us, pounding like driftwood caught 
		inside a current, it was want 
that baffled all those categories hounding us 
		from safehouse to safehouse 
through the suburbs of gender. Now I am no one’s 
		dataset, and the billboard models 
posing along the length of the commute seem 
		too open-mouthed for good taste — 
and tell me, is there anything as indecent as an elevator,
		its rise and fall, doors sliding open 
to release us as though heavy with our breathing? 
		It’s part recall, part fact of you 
that drapes me gently up against the offices 
		on Main Street: in my shoulders, 
in my calves I bear the evidence, in motion 
		and at rest. There is no parting, 
and from here all possible routes through afternoon 
		meander back toward the same 
inverted skyline of you and me, the ceiling fan, 
		and dried-up globs of paint. Even 
the most intensely felt of absences is sequential — 
		now you see us, now you don’t — 
and wherever it is I go to after, I carry with me 
		all the instances I’ve been 
composed of: once, the heavy metal taste of you 
		along my teeth, once, your breath 
against the collar of my mostly buttoned shirt.