my love is on loan,
sent out on an aimless wind.
what happens here is between my
meticulous wings, always
buzzing, always hovering
above unnamed flowers.
the taste of completion
is like no other;
you keep moving toward it,
keep caressing the target:
knowing that on the other side
of the other side is a
convivial feast just waiting
for these mandibles.
we watch our mothers, and
our mothers’ mothers; we
see the face cream, the grays
edging in, the soft clasp of
gravity. but we don’t think we
will become them; we don’t think
we believe in form, in discipline,
in the sparrows hiding in the
fury. but gradually, gradually, the
edges begin to blur, the beaks start
to speak, and the frame fills: this
is the only way to be with both the
sorrow and the bliss, with the passing of so
many chapters, and the grisly opening of a
deeper chasm of books never fully read, never
fully grasped, up to the very end: un-finish-ed.
