Wednesday, August 01, 2007



“It’s early days yet” for another year,
And yet you speak of moving in together.

Though I fell first I can’t allow that thought—

Can’t take it in, can’t think it through, can’t do it.

What if I moved and then—best face the fear—

Your love came to an end, moved on like weather?

What house I build would not be dearly bought?

What choice I make could say I wouldn’t rue it?

It’s “early days.” I haven’t bought the gear,

The bike, the harness, all the custom leather.

I’m sure I will in time—I know I’m caught,

Half fifty-five and half fifteen—ah, screw it.

You play me like a fish, a baby grand.
You feed me—I’ll try not to bite your hand.


There’s not, and never has been, one man’s soul
Like what I took you for—my grand illusion—

The raging dreams that I have swallowed whole

Have made my life a sea of vast confusion.

And yet, beneath my blindness and those dreams,

There is a core of truth and I proclaim it.
Your soul may not be lovely as it seems,

But lovely it remains, and so I name it.

What miracle is this, that love should force
The vessel that it chose to transformation—

That love declares, for better or for worse,

That sense must yield to this divine sensation?

My love, I fell so soon, so hard, so deep;
Let years pass by before our naps bring sleep.


Last summer I fell prey to three great fears:
I feared that I would never love again;

I feared that I could not live out my dreams;

I feared that if I did, I would succumb.

This summer, I am filled with joy. The years

I lived but half my life are past, are “then.”

I see how I’ve made peace with switching teams,

And my contentment nearly strikes me dumb.

All this I owe to you. My sighs, my tears

Are drowned in what you give me, man of men:

Excitement, pleasure, peace, pour down like streams

And my heart rests in what is still to come.

What power is in your love! Will we yet see

That loving you will make a man of me?


It’s true I choked up, packing all my things
Into the back seat of my little car.

But what remains is happiness that brings

Most certain knowledge of just who we are.

We love. I may say “we,” love, may I not?

Is it not true some part of you will pine

For me—is just as sadly, as completely caught?

Is not your heart a little sore, like mine?

How can I ask? My life depends on knowing
You are mine, that I have really found

A heart to call my home. We come and go,

And still find in each other: common ground.

My heart is full of wild, unreasoned gladness:

Another grain, and joy would turn to madness.


I choose the wrong times to reach out, to hold.
When I got up at dawn, I had the luck

To come back to caresses—and felt grand.

But dawn was not what came at break of day.

That well-remembered kindness made me bold.

Awake, I reached for you
—my limbs were struck,
I felt myself rejected, and unmanned,

And something I can’t fathom made you say:

“It’s bad enough to be first hot, then cold,
But to be crowded out of my own fucking

Bed is more than I’m prepared to stand.”

I almost left you then, and drove away.

I didn’t, though, thank Heaven, for that rift

Was followed by the most amazing gift…


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