how halogen headlights are perfect
that I work until I sleep and am not amusing
since I’m too tender of your feelings
to tread beyond the pale,
I’m un-frugal and a house slob and say
where’s my . . .? all the time and remember the dicta
of strangers verbatim
seven years later. You know. You love me.
You know how fragile I believe the hearts of others,
Yet mine: once I get over your unfair critique
or my own bitter intuition
I bang that pot in the basement with a spoon.
How I was sad for a month about a tsunami,
but am confused about film star deaths
impacting the lives of friends. How an argument
is a poem to me: lean,
metaphorical, resounding only when simple.
Why I can’t fathom how a kitty or a pup dies
with only an hour’s alarm
bending time, busting down a spruce called Acceptance
in a few kicks, both of my friends
witnessing, while on the phone with me,
breathing hard and jagged, drawing in life,
as though oxygen were suddenly salt
Who can know better than you
I am deeply satisfied for long unthinking hours of the day,
but my hands crave those words mourning
all the blank space before me, as I write over it,
Sad this, strange that; a seagull on the wind
Is a letter home.