A whole world at my fingertips
and all I can think to write
is how I love the dance
of your words on my tongue,
the play of light
between your fingers and my skin,
the sweet laughter
that keeps me from darker places.

A rusty dangling sign
points somewhere;
he comes to me,
painted and pained;
my arms don’t reach,
but my mind is so open…
the yawning chasm
means I probably didn’t love him well;
much falls with a cracked hinge.

A sour electric snap
of guitar
was our prelude-

our daily feast
was spread
on the sidewalk of sodom,

but there was grace
with a flicker
of a red light.

Letting go
is an ornamental
exercise-

like mixing fancy words
and throwing them like cooked pasta
to see what sticks;

sometimes it’s
“fundamentals of rigorous thinking”
and sometimes it’s “I love you”
– both of which are better kept secret
so you don’t spill like an untried youth
embarrassing yourself
with verve.

I’ve learned to spit out
the most self-immolating
distractions.

The hard part
is keeping the joy of falling again
to yourself.