Perhaps love does really exist, but the beings we are surrounded by don't know how
Perhaps there is no such thing as soulmates, but if you're blessed with loving someone who respects you back, you should stick with 'em
Perhaps the tides come in and then receed to show us what, if anything, will be left behind after some turbulence
Perhaps we shouldn't compare struggles, feet can manage socks and hands can manage mittens
I Love You More Than All the Windows in New York City
and the city turned into the mind
and the moving trucks trumbled along
like loud worries speaking over
the bicycle"s idea
which wove between
the more armored vehicles of expression
and over planks left by the construction workers
on a holiday morning when no work was being done
because no matter the day, we tend towards
remaking parts of it — what we said
or did, or how we looked —
and the buildings were like faces
lining the banks of a parade
The World Is in Pencil
that same silken
dust about it, doesn"t it,
that same sense of
having been roughed
onto paper even
as it was planned.
It had to be a labor
of love. It must"ve
taken its author some
time, some shove.
I"ll bet it felt good
in the hand — the o
of the ocean, and
the and and the and
of the land.
I feel alone.
As if the stone
from the head
of the tomb
in the doorframe
of my room,
I"ve ever loved
my able reach.
And each time
of this marble
they are not
It is not so much that I miss you
as the remembering
which I suppose is a form of missing
except more positive,
like the time of the blackout
when fear was my first response
followed by love of the dark.
Am I lovely? Of course!
Breathlessly I taste
the subtle compliment
of a handmade caress.
Chop me into tiny bits,
caress and tame my soul,
that godly swallow
you love to no end.
about which poetry rarely reaches
transcendence. But love must still fester
even under that. Everyone I know
frets if poetry can still matter,
but what about love? It"s all become
too much for them, and they"re all
on the soma. It makes sense
with these pills when the someone
they thought they loved for years
by never thinking about it says,
" I don"t love you anymore,
but let"s stay friends in that mellow
woebegone way poetry now
sings without singing. " Of course,
word for god,
to raise a song
a sea of wrongs,
like other gods,
and estrange us.
we seem to say,