Ache, broken things healing: bones, disappointments.
Anger, (…) there are other ways of telling the story of our two angers, entwined like bodies in the act of love. But in this one I am not a villain.
Bollywood, where love is an exuberant fantasy of song, where a story stops before it ends.
Compromise, I will get up early with you so long as you’ve made coffee.
Coquette, you called me once. Coy, you said. I am neither. I am all candor and anxiety. Even those words embarrass me.
Desire, a chord played deep in the bass of the body loud enough to drown yourself out.
Fate, about which Breton and Élaud asked in an issue of Minotaure:
“What was the most significant moment of your life, and did you recognize it at the time?” Sunflower. Clocktower. Love revealed, unpursued. Umbrella. Sandwich. Despite ourselves.
Forbidden love, one of my least favorite euphemisms. I might understand forbidding sex-to-feel-powerful or sex-to-feel-charitable or sex-to-feel-visible, but love? That I cannot understand.
Forgive, we did. A lot.
Fragment, I am a fragment of us. I am a fragment composed of fragments. Mosaic, pastiche, ruin. Everyday consciousness proposes lightbulb, ropeswing, teapot, David Bowie, your sweater on, your sweater off, tomatillo, all associated. Parts suggesting the whole they long to be gathered into.
Mad Love (Breton), “What I have loved, whether I have kept it or not, I shall love forever.”
Over, as in turn over, start over, get over. To get to the other side of the same story.
Personism, I cannot pick up the phone and call you, so I write poems.
RE: And that’s what I mean when I talk about gods.
Split, (…) Something in me, under all those layers of now-being-loved, still felt left.