I have meant so much for you: the desk made of redwood
to house my lover’s sunflowers. A window’s blue translation
of a world outside. I have meant the frame. I have meant
the framed. Meaning, its effort, plaits even
our longing with longing. Even our regret
with regret, in pink gold. As for me? I operate with the obstinacy
of a lamp. And just the same sense
of intrusion. The same plated light. I have meant so much. As
for me? There is only conjugation and memory. Or to say so
another way: my lover lives two hours north of this poem by car. She fills the mornings
looking for a parcel of white deer. The deer stand still as description. My lover
moves along their sight. In another life, the deer
were carried to Mendocino from Iran. They will die away
any day now, for lack of a stag. Their nature
is muted, without place. But they have meant so much. They have meant
while my lover hunts their grammar from the summer light.