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



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.


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



we are, somehow.

i don’t under-stand it;


but i honor it and love it

and wait for it to change


me, every