All ways are better to talk more honestly of love
than the act itself, which, yes, is love I guess
but, then is always something else as well,
since I am thinking of your scare (we
think) and whatever love is, it shouldn’t be this obsessive
worry. Or actually, love is
fret, since that’s the music-making
bump of a guitar. You know by now we are callous
and cacophony, our minds
and bodies are at once
belief, and sublime,
subliminal, and liminal
too, and you laugh which shatters a glass
in me, (I wanted you
to laugh) and I managed the silence, I know, I know,
I am hardly making sense, but I am trying
actually to break an uncertain ice: notice, the light playing games
with the wall beside my bed the night I realize I cannot have you
leave, and while I am ever a series of periods,
you are not. A pyramid
between us, a great wonder
that says something about permanence
to us now, and how, when we might finally have it, we shed
our skins and flee. The problem is in saying forever
at exactly the same time. On three:
this is us trying. You called it karma, you said
this is what we get for cheating. Maybe.
But autumn hasn’t robbed us of spring.
We are changed. And remember where we are.
Everything the world is not might also be a blessing.