I've written you in the plotting and plodding,
sweet one. I say this is now.
You are key, lock, bed clothes
pulled off. I am a register
you sing in. How is it love's
consequence has been so light?
I've written you. Sundry.
Catapult of windchime.
I sometimes think of us as forgetful
and only remembering each other
like clausterphobes wanting the dense
space of football fields, the silver
scaled seats of an empty stadium.
That's how much we want
each other. Or deep in the night's
sorrow, when you hear me
breathing, we are one
against the whole legions of one,
continent. Sweet one,
no one prays together any more,
but let us, sort-of-ly, pray
mountains of mustard seeds
that love is root word,
that it will break open
from the ground, serendipitously,
that it will show us the souls
we have so prominently on our sleeves.
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