Constantly, in this tranquil spot, I feign
gentle. Swoon. An evening sparrow says nightbirds.
I say numbers are for counting the days ’til next we meet.
The exit was fabulous—can we part again?
Can we say blue?
Most of the time, pining for touch—I make a muscle
into a Monday cushion—
because there are more nights to squander
in subtleties. Sometimes, I just want to breathe
all the air ’til it’s gone
and give it to you in a package.
I say the weather is an experiment.
You say soft.
We anticipate some great reward
in creating a cloud-like space on which to rest,
punctuating the endless regress of acuteness.
If momentum in your eyes
means opportunity, then I am feverish.
Almost being not enough, we’ll clear the entire sky
by looking up into it—lift up our heads
and cry out for a giant collage of tiny birds.
You say bravery in the honest experience of emotion
and I say believe the birds, believe the music,
believe the morning will always come—
some betterment in beautiful foliage.
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