i am not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

i am driven,
and lazy.
running water,
and ash,
baked into the earth.

i am both
undeserving,
and
the only one
worthy of
Love.

i am flotsam,
and bubbles,
and that coin
which sinks once
tossed Into the
fountain.

i am grass
heaped high !
to feed cattle.

and discarded
watermelon
seed.

but you !
you're the same.
and then,
not the same.

you're flourishing
flowers,
and wilting
autumnal Leaves.

both witness the scythe.

you are living inspiration,
and monument
to entropy.

and if you have veins
then let me be
the salt in those veins.

and if love dies,
then let it die in me,
first.

i couldn't stand
to see it
the other
way around.

Same.
Not Same.

if you are the mirror
then am i
not the frame?

but all of This:
the prose,
aggregate metaphor,
lonely night,
cold morning,
wine drunk alone,
the joy of Longing,

not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

except maybe;
to display.