Poem for Miami

the first time you headed south
routine of geese ahead by months

what snow left
in your sullen driveway

I am drawn to the smell
of a freshly-cut lawn

dream of kitchens & stairs

I’ve made discoveries, I said,
that I just can’t keep

I don’t know where to put them

the scent and the savour
of an inconstant moon

turns familiar for some

I was watching for you out my window
wishing all I could muster,

in twenty below; love,
I am waiting, half-drunk in a snowbank

there is no such thing as geography
there is just where you are,

& where I am, with nothing between

to love is not only possible
but inevitable

the difference, it ends,
in a ring