"the weather in paris"
Originally published in The MacGuffin

is nothing like the weather here.
when it rains, it somehow does so

in french, smelling of boulangeries
and fancy cigarettes. here, the rain

is familiar as the yellow umbrella
we bought together. maybe i’m changing

my opinions about god. maybe
you never thought it would be so easy

to orbit a body, a lake,
a globe. in a month, there will be flurries,

those old crystalline questions.
you’re in paris, and i’m where

i want to say this: i love the nation
we have built, and want to sew you a flag:

dirty dishes, hummingbird, the first few notes
of debussy’s “rêverie,” a dot

representing either des moines or
our eyes, all on a background

of our bed’s summer-green sheets.