The sun returns, will linger 

each day one minute longer,

will cast weird silhouettes 

on the curtains: The pepper 

tree branches dotted 

with cold, slow-moving

bees, blurred wings on bodies 

in all stages of bee flight

(on the curtains I will see wings—

trasnlucent shadows of bee wings).

But now, the rain. Then 

all the stones will darken,

and all the many small things

washed clean will brighten.

This is like life, the thing we wanted:

The places we know via back routes:

the Los Angeles of short cuts cross town,

taken so often they’re ours: it’s known

when there’s new paint or a new car—

The shy tracing of the scar on your palm,

traveling it back and forth, attachment.

Going, then turning to return, being home.