We go about our daily lives understanding
almost nothing about the world: her arms,
the black and white flowers, heavenly bodies
in the sky. This is my brief history
of happiness: someone loved me once,
though my body was already learning
the grave – the flesh, the stench
of my mouth in the morning when I spoke
of the so-called fixed stars attest to this.
In the photo leaning, I’m falling, the gravity
of the situation impossible to measure,
the lace of her dress barely brushing
my dark-suited arm, the vein of hands.
