because a light on the other side of the street reveals
someone more insomniac than you.
because the camera made its way into the carry-on,
not for the traveler, but those staying behind.
because the daisy, its boastful yellow,
begged for a closer look.
because you found yourself being stared at
because the church bell rang precisely at noon,
and all of the stores slid closed.
because someone else’s charcoal fire
made your own mouth water.
because you are afraid of losing him
in a crowd.
because of the mournful sound of train whistles.
because your father let you see him cry.
because a palm against a cheek
steers the world into softer focus.
because the poplars insist on
weathering the winter.
because of lighthouses.
because of shadows.
because of a shared memory of perfume.
because of the sound of feet on cobblestones.
because of window boxes.
because of the man spinning pizza dough
like a circus act.
because the apple tree freed itself of dessert.
because you could hear the waterfall
from a mile away.
because she understands
your every look.
because the martini glasses came in fours.
because the cashier’s hand grazed your palm,
despite the coins between you.
because even if the first words fail,
the next ones won’t.
because the car in the next lane signaled left.
because of the stone wall you found in the woods.
because the dog returns at a single
because of the brilliant descent of leaves,
and the pile that beckoned the neighbors.
because a handful of blackberries saved you
the last miles home.
because the stars look as if they’re winking.