Monday, December 02, 2013


That what I am is not effervescent,
that by the time I see you I have turned so many corners
that somehow we've become strange to one another,
that I cannot say it without a litany,
that I do not know how to express the drive of human love,
consistently, without a dagger,

that this cat and this fireplace
are the first and last world
trembling at 4 a.m., claws buried absently in denim
so gentle to the hell of the morning
fur silver and black
drag my eyes to the blindness of childhood
and on your way back--

this casserole of a brain, these ways of forgetting--
bring me your feline launch, finally,
give me up to the hum in my lap,
petite reassurance.

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