holding forth the word of life (or, brown eyes: here comes the storm)

we were in the pale green parish hall;

there was bright pink punch and stained

teeth and rain and an abundance of estrogen.


you were reading my poem

out loud with such viscosity

you made me choke up.


how do you do that? i asked.

it’s easy, your laugh tinkled like a

wind chime, your poems are full of glass.


now someone is singing

his eye is on the sparrow

and i’m thinking everyone probably saw it but me:


the way i was calmly lured in.

how could i have known?

i’ve always loved both glass and stone.


i go home to write the first lines

(the best love stories are always retroactive) —

brown eyes: here comes the storm.


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