He wedged a poem between the brickwork and the sill,
thought it would slow down ants.
She floated a poem down a creek,
hoped some little boy, some little girl, would find it.
He tucked a poem in a hay bale,
imagined it traveling in the bed of a truck.
She dropped a poem in a well.
You’d see them together,
relaxed, moving slowly, one with cane,
one with scarf and dark glasses,
and you’d think …
What is it they’ve done that makes them appear
to live in some splendid, favored atmosphere?