This poem is called "The Posture of Departure."
"I was looking for clues, pictures
from someone else's wedding, phone numbers on baby
blue Post-Its, her blondness, her tallness, some song lists.
Then you come around and say, let's make love proper,
if it'll stop you from snooping around like this.
I say, if you can't kill it, notice it.
It's an attractive morning.
What I mean is I'm attracted to it.
Fuchsia flowers hang from the wire.
The day kind of plops out like tuna from a can.
Nothing's quite of this century, not this bodice,
nor all this fresh air, nor she and her pale yellow kimono
wanting attention and not getting it,
making those cruddy accusations.
I forget them now, just as I've forgotten the taste
of expensive chocolate.
You can hug a dead body, but you won't get much from it, maybe
a whiff of the mobile virus.
You're better off choosing your fetters, and I choose arms."