love to you and

the way you hold a

pencil,     the way you bend and tilt

 

toward what is important, toward

what moves you     and yet holds

 

you in stilled animation,

wonder,     desire;

 

the way your face      opens

to the widest smile, the

 

bluest

laugh,          like music

 

giving in.     love to you and

the granular tender-

 

ness in your eyes, on your

finger   tips, between the     universe

 

of your lips,     the tension of your sighs. this

kind of     love     has no name; it is just a

 

grate   ful   ness to be in the

same world with      you.

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if we are never

every time i have words for you,

i throw them into a poem.

 

they’re safer here,

and grounded.

 

i can feel you right here

with me:

 

in the shelves, in the recipe-sheaves,

between the leaves:

 

pressed tight

and true.

 

even if we are never

together,

 

we are, somehow.

i don’t under-stand it;

 

but i honor it and love it

and wait for it to change

 

me, every

time.