How to Love
After stepping into the world again,
there is that question of how to love,
how to bundle yourself against the frosted morning—
the crunch of icy grass underfoot, the scrape
of cold wipers along the windshield—
and convert time into distance.
What song to sing down an empty road
as you begin your morning commute?
And is there enough in you to see, really see,
the three wild turkeys crossing the street
with their featherless heads and stilt-like legs
in search of a morning meal? Nothing to do
but hunker down, wait for them to safely cross.
As they amble away, you wonder if they want
to be startled back into this world. Maybe you do, too,
waiting for all this to give way to love itself,
to look into the eyes of another and feel something—
the pleasure of a new lover in the unbroken night,
your wings folded around him, on the other side
of this ragged January, as if a long sleep has ended.
|May 07, 2011||Zulu||Jen Benka|
|Nov 09, 2010||Zerogarden||Andrew Zawacki|
|Apr 03, 2013||Yours||Daniel Hoffman|
|Nov 07, 2011||Your Brain Is Yours||Natalie Lyalin|
|Apr 13, 2006||Young Cops||Tomaž Šalamun|
|May 18, 2014||You! Inez!||Alice Dunbar-Nelson|
|Jan 18, 2011||You Know||Mary Jo Bang|
|Dec 21, 2011||You Envelop Me [Excerpt]||Laynie Browne|
|Jul 14, 2012||You Are Fire Eaters||Marianne Moore|
|May 07, 2012||You and Your Ilk||Thomas Lux|