If everything
were water—

I’d still  be
so
thirsty

for you.

Remember when we never
combed our hair?

Or thought
to eat?

When darkness smelled like
water lilies? And melted
light?

Nothing could
wait.





You were every bit
an astronaut.

I was sky.

.

I saw you
walking home late
afternoon. Maybe
after dinner
at
your mother’s.

Looking left.
Right.
Crossing to close the last
block.

I wonder, if she served
mashed potatoes.
Your mother.

If she knew
the wind
was not the first, today
to
sift your curls.

Kiss
your cheek.

The Coming in
and Going out
of God.

The package you requested,
cannot be
delivered.

Because the black cat
at the fourth floor
window
is watching. Because the lantern
creaks
and sways. Because the key took
a wrong turn. Because
the address book except
one page was thrown
away. Because the body
and the blood behind
the shed was
everything
you meant to send

instead.

Is the perfectly, perfectly
perfectly round,
round, smooth skin, tight
sweet cool
I can roll

on my tongue just to roll,
roll, bite, chew into
pieces of heaven.



Is when you say
One end, stem,
five-tip star
at the other-–
Not round.



Is when I say
That may be.

But what
I love best
about Sundays…

are the blueberry, blueberry,
blueberry
kisses

from you.

The Father
of the bride was
touched. At least
a hundred people shook
his hand, congratulated
him.
He filled their glasses with
champagne.
I danced with him. He
dances well, the
Father of the bride.

Because this
goodbye knows no
hello,

it hesitates to
end. Doesn’t want

to swallow. Only blinks  and
blinks and
blinks
and
maybe if I

smile,
in the middle of
grim,

I can hide you.

Find you.

Tomorrow.

There will be
days
that matter.

Today.

The birthday
of your mother.

All the days

between.

The beginning is
never enough. Your kiss
uncurls like
treasure maps, hot

Frosting,
cinnamon to
pull apart and

Anchors, always
anchors.

Reeling away
at your
calico heart.