When you are near me, I am a confident paper boat
in a bathtub full of Kool-Aid, where I tilt in circles toward the
drain, which does not worry me, for I know that a wet
hand will reach up and and carry me into the kitchen.
We will eat goat cheese and asparagus. We'll learn
into each other by way of hoping we have guessed
right, and then be taken by yes and the silence that
holds yes the way I hold the hair beneath your hair.
Things that scare me include car dealerships at night
and the fact that snow cannot live inside my mouth.
Boom. That's it. Once on Belchertown Rd. I saw a ten foot
soldier with a deer rifle and a torn jerkin walk out of
1789 and into the woods. He left because he knows
I will protect you! You don't need to keep a grill skewer
in the soap dish. The world is something I will gather for
you and brush off like I'm cleaning a dryer filter. Let's plant
apple trees in the radio. Keep one suitcase full of bees.
Listen, I like you so much that I want to steal your jokes.
Though you are a hand and I am a boat, we smell like
dancing. We make a new health. Dancing invented
us. Dancing is just putting yourself on inside out.
When you are near me, I feel as if I have caught the
only bus of the day somewhere in New Mexico and
you are the spy plane above us and the gingerbread
factory that the driver won't stop talking about. Except
no, wait, that's you, sitting in the aisle with your boots off.
You bite my shoulder. You have a smoothie mustache.
It is because your name does so much to me that I call you
many things. You ask me why I'm not asleep yet. I forgot
how to get there. For some reason I just hold you and float.