Unburdening

After we talked that afternoon in the café, suddenly I felt
         shy, but mostly grateful; I hoped my recent stories 

didn’t sound only like overindulgence in grief—
         grief like a staircase I climb dumbly up and down 

through the day, while perhaps more tangible things 
         happen in other rooms. The smell of citrus zest 

in one, the soft bleating of sheep in another. The baker 
         stacks bread hot from the oven, every loaf bronzed 

like a leaf out of time. Next door, workers are patching 
         my neighbor’s roof, before the future intrudes again 

in the form of a rising river, in the form of every rusted relic
         washing up on the beach to rebuke us. How do lovers

know which way the world will tilt? Like them I only want   
        to bend my head, follow the music with my feet.