The powers that be
gave the man
a cannon for a hand.
He had the important job
of rooting out all
that was deemed overtly silly.
It was to achieve
some sort of balance,
a continuity.
The man (with the cannon hand)
had explicit and deliberate
rules that he was to follow.
Those who didn’t align
with the guidelines
were removed.
Those that the man (with the cannon hand)
simply did not like
were also removed.
And so things went
for a little while.
The guidelines were often amended,
new things added,
new things banned.
The guidelines rarely laxed.
Eventually the powers that be
were all able to agree
that the notion of a man
with a cannon for a hand
was quite silly, and that
a super cannon
stationed high above on a super
space station
would be much more plausible.
The man (with the cannon hand)
had not yet gotten
to the cannon hand ban
part of the guideline updates
before he was promptly removed.

There’s so much I want to give
but your hands are already full,

so I wrap my up my love
and place it under the tree
for whenever you’re ready.

As the days melt into weeks,
the shiny paper
mulches into the carpet
of my apartment
with the pine needles,
fertilizing more poetry.

This is its own kind of gift —
but I’d rather have you.

If there is one thing I know about falling 
So deep in love with a person, is that you lose
Your breath on the way down and sometimes
You never get it back, but you’ll chase that dragon 
For the rest of your life with no end in sight.

As I settle into bed 
blinds pulled down, lights shut off
while the moon tucks diurnal creatures in
I remember when I longed for this
all the cold winter nights of no sleep
when my mind limped through to the dawn
now, at long last, I can
cross the finish tape and the threshold of my room
and guiltlessly crawl under the comforter 
at such an early hour 
that I could nearly laugh at myself
as the color of twilight gently falls over the world

these are not my words
they’re overheard
spoken in speeches 
one heard even today
they weren’t his words
either
just utterances,
consonants and vowels 
heard among speeches
others shared to others
friend to friend
politicians to masses
mentor to mentor, until
they arrived, striking
hammer and anvil
to me 

do justice
love kindness
walk humbly

those are not my words
but I will live them

I tell myself that it’s okay to give up,
throw the towel in, close the chapter.
It’s important to know one’s self
and stay realistic with limits.
Gotta look out for number one, gotta put
me first, gotta consider my options.
But I don’t. I’m not tenacious, not a
dog with a bone. But I’ve gnawed down to the
marrow of every problem in my life. When I
look down, it’s my own arm between teeth.

as simple as shaking my head,
l oo sening fr o m
my hair

the mistaken light n ing bugs.
& you
     scoop the shiny tadpoles
from my eyes
& ask Do you really need
two of these? I’m not sure
except to say       perhaps you’re right, I’ve seen enough
already. Except to say, I’ve always
had them. In another life

we might watch our children
all christmas, no bookcase.
In this timeline, we separate
our cats by bedroom.

Let it come
without apology—

through the tall grass,
across the open field,
bending every stem
until the earth remembers
its own surrender.

Or find me
in the first light,
when morning has only just
unlatched the window
and the house still belongs to dreams.

Do not speak.

Let your hands
be the grammar
of a language older than speech.

Hold me

as rivers hold their banks—
with such inevitable force
that I cannot mistake
the direction of their longing.

There are moments
too immense for tenderness.

Moments that ask
to be claimed
the way dawn claims darkness—

Where somewhere beneath
the practiced civility of daylight
there lives a force
that would find me
the way spring finds frozen ground—

suddenly,

and with enough conviction
to split the earth open
into bloom.

Drove for six hours 
for a few day trip
up to Chicago
with my wife and little kid.
Gonna go see the Field Museum,
eat pizza, and relax.
Staying at a historic hotel
having a blast.
I’ll be damned
if Murphy, and his law,
done visited our AC unit
brought me the gift of swamp ass. 

They say you swallow eight spiders in your sleep.
I’d rather imagine them having a midnight rager
on my walls.  Forget the amps and speakers, they dance
to the vibrations of each other’s legs, the bobbing
of their partners’ abdomen,
jiving in puddles of starglow,
leaving footprints of light for me when I wake.