Poem

For Hannah

It’s a district you’ve wandered in before. 
It welcomes you.  The markets, the bazaars,
something you gate
out of conversation, even when
wanting to idly impress someone.  Is private. 
Something held onto.  Never to tell.  Church bells,
ivy, a girl with long hair. Call it shelter.  Call it
a pause.  A hand touching milkweed.  Unsafe
meadows.  Or a city.  A region.  Saddling darkness
in a snowfield.  The persistent unhappiness
of the moon.  Delicate humans that you dare not, dare
not touch.  And more slenderly,
the knowledge of such, half-drunk
on depression and lovers whom you know
will leave.  Afternoons of amber, fresh graves. 
The yellowed paper of the 17th century dictionary,
in which you’ve looked up the basics – love,
home, trust.  In the closed book on your desk,
a dead Spanish poet keeps looking
to the moon.  People use so many words
they do not know.  Wife.  Prison. 
Farewell.  The tree outside the window
has one secret leaf.  It matters.  Like something
we once called bravery.  Like shame.  I do not apologize
for wanting the impossible from you.