Saturday, December 26, 2009

Three Meditations on a Lamp

At night the sky is dusty with too much snow falling.

The deer come up to the birdfeeder to eat. There is never enough food.

This is not a metaphor for the cold snap of missing you.

Knowing you wait up nights under the same sky, working by a single lamp, straining your eyes--
Knowing you want sex, take airplanes, wonder about god--
it is not enough.

Your tongue in my ear, transmitted over telephone wires, you read me children's books.

I meditate on cranberries, gratitude.

I fall wordlessly, lovingly, into your being, into being you, into nonsense raucous iridescent love.

Friday, December 4, 2009


It is entirely possible that you could grow disinterested

stalk past me on my way to class and not utter a word

never raise your eye when I enter a room

and for weeks I would not know I had lost your favor