I like the idea that there’s an idea. In the bare trees of winter.
In the wise-hungry birds. In madness and mittens.
Out past the graveyard. Have you seen them?
How they roost on the branches of frost-bitten words?
And they’re off. And I like the idea that there’s a generous palm.
In a snowy statue a beating heart. That all is well in the world.
But you tell me a time comes. And another. And then another.
And I tell you, all of the times are one time, and the one is none.
You tell me apples are not oranges.
And I tell you how much I love them, naked and bleeding.
You are beautiful. You tell me many fine things.
Very well. I confess. I live in a dream world. In a world of dreams.
You smile. I’m your puppy. Your goldfish. Your child.
And I tell you, dig deeply, run freely, be wild.
The idea that there’s something hidden and something revealed.
Like the distance we imagine between us is healed.
O dear one. Such a steep climb. So many graves. What a fool I am.
In the marketplace you would give me a penny and be done.
But here we are one. Masculine-feminine. God.
And the moment we have waited for is finally come.
When ideas aren’t needed. Take me up. Lay me down.
Bid me farewell. I am your bones. You are my tongue.