Poem 19: Little Words

Little words ricocheted, my hair was curlier
the days were orange and round and brilliant,
cold, with black silhouettes etched
into them. All the letters had little
tails, all the tails with ultraviolet
hues that only the birds could see.
One bird especially. The bird
of recursion, the bird that echoed
back on itself, over and over
again, my friend. But you knew this.
You were there, amongst the daffodils
outside the library. No, let's not
get fanciful. Those days are distant,
they shimmer on horizons, and we --
no, I -- oh, this isn't going anywhere.
I can't go back and rewrite the lines,
I can't think about metaphysical brinkmanship,
your knees, my cagey laugh, and the magnet
on my refrigerator the day I almost said no.