because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

love

Your heart

full moon

 

 

 

 

has grown old.
worn down by the lonelinesses
of a hundred empty homes,
sunken in
like fingers
fallen too long asleep
in a hot bath.

how else
do you show me
the moon,
its silky-
ink silhouette
stained on our back door,
and not kiss me?

there is no monitor
that measures
love. tell me: when
was the last time
it leapt?
got a running start
and just

jumped? heedless
of chasm, of canyon,
of distance?
of the finish,
the fear, the flatline?
your pulse
plays its thud-thump

through limp veins,
forgetting
how to thunder.
if i could see you
the way the lightning
sees, from inside the storm,
i would find it

damp and dark,
with slow rivers
and huddled walls,
a crumpled fist
written with little scars
but untouched, too,
by moonlight.


Moving the grains of our hillsides

…it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways…

–from Mary Oliver’s Song of the Builders

–for c.

if i parse out my hurt
into couplets, throw

it a title in bold, will
you be able to read it,

then? the picture frames
stand empty, the lust

poems all curled up into ash, soot
smeared on the back of my left hand

like sad ink as i reach
to light the last of the candle.

the government is selling
off lighthouses, up East

in Massachusetts, out
West in the Great Lakes.

maybe you
could find beautiful there.

we have not come very far, here,
after all: the same lonely feel

in the upstairs window,
the same lonely matching scars.

i can’t afford a lighthouse.
the child’s tower built from old brick

in the backyard
has nothing of beauty,

is no house for light.
if i unmake it

and hand you back the bricks
one by one,

i want you to know
what they can mean.


the loneliness of train whistles

tracks over Mayo
the loneliness of train whistles
has been known
to keep us up at night.

when there is moon,
we play hopscotch
on  old sidewalks

with chalked silhouettes
of desire. when there is not,
we walk white-footed the rails

by the river, counting
darks between shadows
until the sun

comes and grows and
our backs bend too heavy
so we turn them

from the creosote-soaked
tang of the city
to dig holes in dry dirt,

filling them up
with all the weight
of emptiness.


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