When I recall that you’re going to die,
I cry. Poetry has wrecked me from an early age,
drawing circles of loss and mortal business.
On the page it can all get held in the same taste.
My heart burns. Soon the heart stops.
The lines make visible the patterns
of your desires to knowing strangers.
I’m so full of love, feelings spill clouded colour
all over polite conversation. Tidal response, moods,
structural mysteries. You are like hot water in winter.
The ones I love derail vigilant ordering.
They play in the cold, hard fact.
Engagement is the stable ground of trust.
Some times we need to ask, at others to protect.
when the nothing is come, a kind word,
a soft strong touch, in the hope
the intention will spin up some luck
I met you. The love sets in.
I will die, and you’ll have to tell your deep mind,
that asks after me, that you can’t satisfy.
Here is a hunger you’ll have
to live with, like an ex-gambler,
starting fresh each day, but worse.
Maybe you’ll find God then,
the one who’ll never leave you,
and if you feel lost, then the answer is to know
the system has it all covered.
As long as we are able to we’ll keep this thing