Dear E----,

The bus crawls eastward like an insect:
silvery carapace and compound eyes,

broad-spotted blue and red with ads
as we scuttle along the curb-crumbs,

outpacing a decaying Tuesday sun.
In my thoracic seat I think of love,

its strangest colors and contours,
gentle treacheries and bridges burnt,

a wavering lawn of doubled sleep.
Tonight we dine on margaritas

in our cheap pub on the hill,
hope the questions all get answered,

touch feet under the table in secret.
I'm sure I wear at your patience

with this haircut I slashed myself,
my many stumbles of attention,

all my errors of cipher and code,
& the old hot luggage of my battles...

but you persevere. Look up -
the stars are champagne perlage

in a dark coupe, and all around
the living are dying; the dying are living.

my skin is listening: this
edge of a breath that engulfs us
the hours reclaim their elements
earth, water, air, fire
we don't banish ether from our eyes
with you an apple is a riddle
answers are not separated from questions
some mantras deepen the circle of
what I would say without words

the room of tears was waiting for someone suited for grace,
for bridging the gap between our  wounds
a dream of togetherness filled with white smoke
the joy winged and grounded
as the immanence of the divine
tears roll with a new hope to find generosity
in the human form