hope is the thing with feathers,

and despair the autumn leaf

that believes for just a moment

that it’s flying.

My soul lay bare before you
in ****** contrapposto,
as if you carved me that way.

you turn the air to music,
and everything to art.

and even though it’s beautiful,
you remade my heart to marble.

I’ll stop loving you
when even the sundials
no longer tell time

my new tattoo idea:
all of your freckles

my poems are so ******?

oh.

neurotic.

in my dreams and idle violence
I imagine that I’m loved and lovely,
that she rests upon my chest in silence,
her breath testing the finiteness
of my heart that ticks defiantly.

so tricky are these fickle dreams,
I hear no real beat beneath my bones.
where the river goes, so do the boats,
and daylight has decreed
that we are gone the way of ghosts.

you were the stars, and I
a daytime astrophile

do Orion and
the Pleiades
ever gaze at
you and me?
for we are what
they hope to be,
begot by stars,
a conscious sea,
and even pain
means we feel things

I would read Us over and over
til the corners of every page
fold like my dog’s ear,
one up, one down,
and every sweet nothing is
underlined, color-coded,
anthologized in the back.
Hiding under the blanket
with my childhood flashlight,
I would read Us over and over,
trying a mouthful of your
words on my tongue.
Salt, wooded citrus, coffee,
perhaps just glue and mold,
but the pages trick my nose.
I would read Us over and over—
even though I know how it ends.