When the world woke from burning
we wiped down the counters
and straightened the dishtowels.
Alarms held up the distance, just habit,
and the baby sighed and turned
across the receiver. The sun rose
like it does and like we
like to say it does, and each one
was an apparition you tallied
from the kitchen, rag still in hand,
standing there. You said, yes,
there. I asked,
can we stand here still. You said, yes,
here, I dreamt you armfuls of the world.