I asked him to dinner;
little did he know I'd been invoking him in poems
for six months.
I miss you, I said, and he said,
well, don't think about it too much.
He gives me all my best one-liners,
contriving chapels from the air,
and then,
there are limits in nature, prairie thunder fire and it's back to grass, waxing and waning, overshoot collapse, chewed nails god
Who wrote that, I asked, and then he,
I did-- just now.
There's a word always on the tip of my tongue
when he makes a church for me of his arms--
(perhaps no one will love me as he does again?)
apologies are mere cathedrals. your kisses are mountains, your hands are hands of god, your mind divine, my transgressions infinitely palpable-- forgive me
Forgive me for this silly poem, anyway,
I am ashamed.
