A gentle tempest stormed my lawn; it stood
me still and then was gone. Anchored,
awestruck in my place by beauty and euphoric
grace, I thought of Spinoza's God, infinity's
precise design, the perfect math of Everything –
our love, a quotient of Divine.

We drifted like snow.
There will be more cold mornings,
the sharp tap of sleet—
but my legs will not find yours
beneath the warm mess of sheets.

that's always the first thing I think
                    love
when lofty           begins to
                                              sink.

From wind and stone, sand.
From faith and prophets, temple.
From beast and hunter, blood.
From my heart and your heart, monsoon.

Out of work muse
seeks out of words poet.

Must love grammar,
discord, whole days lost
to plotting coups through bitten lips

and safe words drawn with fingertips;

should know to not break my heart
at night, when there are still
hours of emptiness to fill up with sorrow.

Available evenings, starting tomorrow.

Tonight, I'll bake bread
because I need 
good smells 
and warm hands 
and a sense of purpose.

My love was like a playful kitten,
curious and quickly smitten –
maraud the house to see what's in it,
intrigued by all the things forbidden.

Your love was like a lazy hound,
content to dig the same old ground –  
or better yet, to go lay down;
a nuisance, having me around.

Because my love cannot be the orchestra,
I have hidden it in the glissandos;
do not listen for it when the music swells,
but in the resonance of in betweens.


Because my love cannot be the whole summer,
I have strapped it to the legs of bees;
do not look for it in flowered fields,
but in the pollen stuck to window screens.