I am sorry:
That look you gave me last night
was the same one I gave you
that Thursday in March.
The ground remained frozen,
the plants deeply asleep
from an overly long winter.
I meant not a word of that look.
My feelings were there or here or neither.
I wanted to take it back, stow it under the bed,
seal it with wax, erase it from our hard drive,
tuck it away from your line of vision,
bury it in remote furrows of a barren field;
place it in the deepest recesses of a box,
so you could only find it
when frantically looking
for something else.