In winter, we warmed our hands over the heat of the open oven,
talked about Gershwin and James Galway, Tolkien

and the pigeons who pecked the curb outside.
Once, a sugar maple blew over in my back yard.

The unearthed roots were clogged and tangled with dirt,
a blackening half-moon bigger than your silver Honda, bigger

than the standing tree ever was. Like water changing courses,
like Farinelli and the curve of his ribs, the explosion of his high C.

How many rivers can we not cross to know each other, you asked,
so I measured the width of the amazon. I tested the strength of its current.

Eventually, I grew tired of apricots and second-hand whiskey. Instead,
I placed a turtle’s heart in my mouth and let it beat against my tongue.