TRYING

I’d forgotten how much

I like to grow things, I shout

to him as he passes me to paint

the basement. I’m trellising

the tomatoes in what’s called

a Florida weave. Later, we try

to knock me up again. We do it

in the guest room because that’s

the extent of our adventurism

in a week of violence in Florida

and France. Afterward,

the sun still strong though lowering

inevitably to the horizon, I check

on the plants in the back, my

fingers smelling of sex and tomato

vines. Even now, I don’t know much

about happiness. I still worry

and want an endless stream of more,

but some days I can see the point

in growing something, even if

it’s just to say I cared enough.