During the consequential stillness of a hangover
I internalized the eternal now.
Your voice on the phone gestured toward the pomegranate on the counter.
You said, Wouldn’t that be perfect?
Your spontaneity is promised by every American University.
My love for you is the rhubarb pie on the gingham cloth.
Our life together is the unpeeled pomegranate.
I want to live with you forever in an expansive Montana valley.
You see, language is a roundabout in a Midwest shopping mall,
And metaphors are tiles of linoleum.
And love is the mislabeled rows of a community garden.
And life is the hangover from some wild prenatal party.
