the empty lake, the static on the radio, the years
with missing handle bars—
the one that halfway fit him was the gloves.
He wore them all spring, then all summer, weeding
even by moonlight, relentless as a ghost,
as constant as the sky we ignore
'til geese fly south and give us a reason to look:
their sad, odd honking like the sound of our desire...
Of course, he was crazy;
all the couples on our street know that.
One morning we woke to the noise of him weeding
his house, uprooting the plumbing, uprooting