Love In Multitudes

There is love that you welcome in and
reheat the coffee for, and
love that flies in through an open door and
builds a nest in the upper corners of the room.
There is love that stings when you find it clinging to
your sleeve, and
love that smells as fresh and sweet as the second snowfall.
there is love you chase away with a broom,
and love you sit on your lap and pet until it purrs,
love you cannot name and
love as vast and cryptic as a carving in a British hillside,
love we all know and love known by few,
all valid, always valid,
the love we pat on the back as it vomits and
the love we watch sunsets with,
love as thin and concentrated as the point of a needle and
love that spreads through your arm like medicine,
and love that pounds inside your head like flu.
There is love that sounds like music and love that
sounds like pots being knocked from the top shelf,
love that watches you undress and
love you undress yourself,
Surely there is love,
Surely there is love,
Surely, there is love in you.

One-In-A-

We want to shout our love in languageless terms,
Caress with appendages not yet evolved,
Wed at a monument constructed
and destroyed for us.
We are stranded at the mountain’s roots,
believing that love springs forth
like a crocus from the soft earth,
unwilling to imagine the hard bulb beneath,
and sure that a passphrase known by all
(at least in part)
cannot be secret,
cannot be love.

Kiss Like Cowards

I wish I could apologize for tomorrow,
But my lips are dry, dry as winter air,
The sparks between us now are only static
surging from fingertips, bursting onto hair-
So let’s just kiss like cowards,
Let our hands roam free beneath the flagwhite sheets,
Someone else can worry about the fallout,
The someone born from a shaking sleep.

I hope I won’t hurt you when you hurt me.
Can’t stand these tiny shards in my lungs,
You hear the hollow rasping of my breath now,
Aching for the whole thing to be do done.
So let’s just kiss like cowards for a moment,
Pretend like there’s no mines left in the sea,
Let me stay a while at your fingertips,
because tomorrow you’ll be done with me

After the Flash

We walked through the woods with our hands in our pockets,
Alone with the rotting ash trees,
And the air between us was a riot of rockets,
When we realized what would never be.
We could have parted as calmly as cowards,
But you’d always wanted the last word
With your face twisted up like a brute
You slipped love from a sheathe in your boot,
Jammed the word through my ribs,
and left me here
to live.

That (National Poetry Month Day 13)

That
coy glance, that
brush of hands, that
electric moment, that
spreading smile.

That
casual yawn – that
ol’ move – that
arm draped over
her shoulder.

That
sideways look
(you know the one), that
hammering heart, that
eccentric joy, that
chorus swell, that
starlit night, that
sense of wonder, that
soothing light.

That
movement closer, that
tiny distance that
bridges bodies, that
brings together, that
energy mingling, that
dance of eyes, that
sweet release, that
first kiss.

The Unbeloved Night

The streets are all deserted, the star-light glimmers bleak,
This night has been perverted by a love grown faint and weak.
On trails I wander softly and await the joy I’m due
And though it haunts me awfully: I will not come home to you.

The moon is high and hated while our sorrow paints the night,
The future I’ve created now a monstrous thing of fright.
Past minutes stretch to hours, and thinner yet to years
Through the dimness that devours I see lifetimes fade to tears.

All the love I have not given, the lies I have not told,
Are nails too quickly driven through the marrow of my soul.
Now these shadows have grown stronger for the light I left with you,
And though the night grows longer I know dawn is coming too.

Permanence

Mankind has never been so grand
as letters pruned by poets’ hand
would lead you to expect; perhaps
if our vision would just lapse
to lower levels, slick with slime,
where dwells no image, where dreams no rhyme,
to view the work of long-past paupers
whose letters home were not so proper-
but pleas that we would quite well know
as lustful shrieks from long ago;
the mating call wiped from the slate,
through history did not abate.
Perhaps the belief would then dispel
that the Past was romance, the Present – hell.