At Nineteen I Wrote

a poem called “Love: The Knowing,”
though I hadn’t been in
love, had gorged myself
with pop tunes, thought
love was everything
worth knowing—love
now seems more like water
spilled from a cup and wiggling
in strange lines across

the table. I’m in love
with a guy but also in love
with watching bluebirds
beyond the porch screen
and a Salmon Runner dahlia
that runs while staying
in place. Love knows

my name but forgets where
I live. It’s fine, I’m forgetful too,
yet we find our way
to each other.