I fear that I have made you feel
at times too common: like
the sound of a public school
desk sliding across a dirty
floor, or the sight of a shoelace dangling
agreeably from its knot, or
the smell of burnt toast or taste
of a ham sandwich.

You are so much more than a ham sandwich.

You are wondrous in the same way
cinnamon is wondrous as it dances
and falls from its shaker, the way a porch
light is wondrous when it winks rapidly right
before it falls asleep forever, the way
                        black ink is wondrous as it slides like a figure
                                    skater—or grace—or laughter—across an icy page.

Forgive me for everything—for all
            I’ve allowed years of marriage to make dim—but most of all, forgive
                                    me for mistaking you, like I do the moon, for mundane.