Love, your apartment is a mess, a state
for six years you live with, in, no, become.
Newspapers, letters, CDs, books are crumbs
scattered on this rented hardwood plate.
Floored in the bedroom, the mattress conjugates
the two of us; pajamas, glad bridegrooms
shed the morning after, they assume
an aspect of permanence. Why hesitate
then when I said I’d move my things to join
my briefs, in that white drawer, and toothbrush?
You said you need your space bought with the coin
of years making the mess your own, the hush
when you can’t hear the argument of groins.
My rucksacks wait. They can wait. They won’t rush.