t h i s  i s  n o t  
p o i n t l e s s
meetingisnot
meaningless
t h i s  is  n o t
regret.

we so worried about
bein' left or how little spaces
are even bigger with just us
the way
er'thing looks starin'
at our backs in the future
'cause we spend the days
hopin' someone'll stick
close, and when they ain't or aren't
we rubbin' sticks together
watchin a lot of TV and stars
things are alright
already, we ain't dying or
nothin', got clothes and food
just like that bible scripture
but one question always
on our minds-- why are there
so many people, then?

why there so many people, then?

right after we reach that point where for the first month all I want to do
is explain the same things over and over to you, whether it be the things
you said last week or the things you said just today, or the way I feel
about you in fifteen different languages (with the first 13 still being English)
and that 34% of the time the water will be too hot and I will come
on too strong and all of my poems will be these drawling confessions
of love, because I do, I love. And it will never be that I fall in love easy
but more that I see the wounds in others, their quick tempers and shortages, the vices they pull from their back pockets when
dead friends come alive in conversations
the night he died he--


The truth is, before you date me--
the first forty-seven dinner places
will likely be Subway and Chiles
I won't eat onions in front of you
and if my carpets aren't vacuumed
you're not coming over.

the truth is
I spend a lot of money
on things I shouldn't and
will always opt for breakfast foods
or a jar of peanut butter over a
meal, furiously switch through
harmonies to Traveling Soldier by
the Dixie Chicks

the truth is


the truth is.

These are only guidelines and I am more predictable. My fantasies include meeting your family,
cooking with your mother
and several disjointed memories
strung together in this big awkward conglomeration of
sensations and fabrics, the erratic heartbeat of
every subway pigeon in New York
who lies to itself about it's
own desensitization
but the trains still rattle
their bones and the quick winds
still tear through their feathers
and each day manages to feel
like sets of ten minutes that
each last a year.

I thought for sure God had left me
when he laid his hand across my chest
and pressed in--what a peculiar feeling,
of hurting, but not really hurting, of
breathing, but not really breathing,
I laid there barely gasping, fingers
rapping against my sternum,
trying to break through to
hold my heart, just to hold
it, just to pull the weeds
from their vice grip and
feel it quiver, then quake,
then
roar.

i will try to remain as soft
and warm as I am when
the days are long and the
river is high, because I seem
to take the winter into my
pores and the snow pack
in my thighs, let my fences
run for miles and miles
but I'm trying.