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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hands down

we are out of time ,

 

inside this anatomy

anachronism .

 

on the outside , the

wind tunnels

 

persist : digging away at

our cells ,

 

hunting those

seven years .

 

you have the right to remain silent :

 

to triangulate temple , tendon ,

tomb ;

 

spirit whipping

through .

hands on

god is not one of us;

god is all of us.

 

if we could put our

hands on

 

the whole world,

we would feel it—

 

the story of

the story of the

 

spiral pearly gate

opening and leading

 

us up and out of our

self-preserved caves,

 

around and around in

remembrance circles until

 

we could not do even one thing

without love.

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i miss the heartless

moonflower3

wandering around,
looking for something
to pour into, to feel through,
to let glide down the sides
like molten gold, like a woman’s
touch, like a moon-lit hot spring.

it all starts with the missing:
the void that needs to be filled,
that sucks in something i can give;
something i can take;
something i can sustain
for a time.

these borrowed hands,
heart, mouth, mind—strong
in their making—leave me
wanting, paint me with a deep
black-blue i love and hate
and barely push through.

Art: Moonflower, by Bo Olsen