I’ve fallen in love with a bear
whose wooden claws aerate the great
fields. Every morning over coffee
I read my dreams from crumpled newsprint
while he lays the hammer on the table.
Across each tool we write the first
three objects it will meet, and our voices
sleep in the telephone cradle. So lucky
he and I: Our home is a small museum
of labor. Inchoate ripples expand
over fields for miles, making
concentric rings. Taking hours
at the shelves to choose from among
the labeled jelly jars, we can no longer
separate words from our work. The sounds
become less and less familiar. This
goes on long into the night: his dark
hair over candlelight, implements lined
on the yellow tablecloth, row upon row.