Love is that eventual thingthat’s oft defined by numbers —
Satire flatters, by omission — brightens, like a winter sunrise,without feeling the frost below.
Thursday nightwith red-eyed vision;a déjà vu life in repetition.
In the sunshine, I may writea happy poembeneath a feijoa tree,while the spiderwebs clingto its twigs, a splayso brittle…
A heavenly dreamof releasing crystal birdsand love notesin a swell and ebb of a mourning…
Swaying in a bath,in a boat hull shaped for two.
If I would have lovethen I would have this —
Driving always makes me thinkof us, and around you;how we wanted the same things,but how I only chose you.
This is my vacancy, my loves.