for Diane

It's one of those spring days winter
won't give up.  We're on the third floor
and the crows that tilt and holler
down this time of year are right
beside me, settled or squabbling on
the transformers outside our window.

When I bought this place, the inspector
said they were safe or I was
safe from them.  He wouldn't let an infant
sleep in that corner or me if I get old
here, but for normal life, life as it's lived
in the usual living room, brain cancer
from the electromagnetic field's no real
danger.  Same with the friable

asbestos in the basement.  Don't snort it
he said, and don't sprinkle it on your food,
but you're not going to die of silicosis
because insulation crumbles from pipes
in the laundry room.  So this is where we'll start

a life together:  a little old, a little ragged,
windows rattling in their frames
when the wind picks up and when the earthquake
stumbled around a few kilometers below the surface
a few miles outside of town, the light
in the bathroom swayed and a couple of books
fell from the top shelf.  But, really, we're safe
here and we can make ourselves more

than safe, you know that.  And I don't mean
the hole I made throwing the phone.
We can do better--patch or 
keep that gap, change our wall.  By the way,

your mother called.  She was surprised
when I answered, but I reassured her.
Everything's fine, I said, or better.
And when I hung up, the last
crow lifted off, clean as a sun.