Tethered to the flagpole of my chest is a piece of fabric, a suggestion of a country. The days lengthen by minutes. I stand ankle deep in red wine, kneading dough with two hands on the counter, a third hand full of walnuts, balancing two babies on my hips. Is this what it's like? There are pictures of a couple making out all over the city, an ad for breath mints. The first time we kissed, we had just boiled water for tea. We were nervous, spent the whole rest of the day trying to taste air in smaller cups and cups of breath. A bucket. A saucer. A thimble. The nights recede into pale nouns. My eyes, still heavy with you, knit the blocks together behind closed doors. I sell candles. I climb, somewhere. Time does not fly. It wanders over the ground in spaces between arguments, the dishes left untouched in the kitchen sink. Time is honey growing stiff in the cabinet.