He starts with with his height: six foot something (as if he didn’t know) which is in fact bigger than mine. We’ve talked about this (my tendency to self-compare) but look at how close he is to the magnolias from up there. Now he’s a poet too. He sees what I see only once it’s fallen to the ground, making a mess of things like I do, often without a sound. The inches added won’t bring me closer to anyone (my parents on Magnolia street for example) or anything. But he assures me that Spring has a petal for everyone. Maybe it is all mission, like Rilke said. Minor probable disasters waiting everywhere to blossom. Even here within this mess, a menage that houses things I have yet to confess, flowers that need only a vase (and the slobberiest part of my kiss)