Like So, Like So

after John Straley, after Raymond Carver

Suppose I wrote the word slowdown
on a card and mailed it to you.
When you opened it, would you
remember the winter we forged
poem after poem after poem
compressed, restricted by snowstorms.
Or the chickadee hopping
around the canoes tucking high
into the dark air of the red maples
with song, beautiful as dance
its own water, own lights.

Or would you remember
the length and loud of the train whistle
on the other side of the river
as you rushed uphill
from those docks that piled
so much covering undercurrent
from the powerboats when we made bond
to enjoy all of summer’s heats.

The physical entirety
of those waters that could
have been elsewhere
abyssal hill, troposphere,
whipped by wind,
oblique, eccentric
rolling up and over your feet,
my promise
to cross half the world
in those goddamn trousers
to be with you.

I know I can be
long-winded at times
especially when you’re standing
at the edge of a great lake glistening
a full day’s work with only one word
you saved all day, for eve,
forgive me, my pattering,
my elusive
Love.