It Would Have Been Really Great!

I should have recorded it on my phone—

three nice lines of poetry—
all memory of them blown

away now like a lone prairie moan.
It had the special coquetry
that I save for certain people in my phone

contacts—I sit alone
and they join me because they like my jollity—
memories of them blown

into my lamp tonight as I sit quarantined
here in the remote outer Hebrides
of my distance—all chances blown

long ago on the one big bet that I left home
to make—succumbing to the mystery
of what I never recorded on my phone.

Well, you have the bay horse, I’ll take the roan,
and we’ll ride together through the fields of history.
Recorded on my phone?
All memory blown.

Love in the Time of Cholera

Whom did I meet yesterday?

Whom do I ever meet?
Will you come out and play

with me today?
Will we eat the same sheet-
cake we enjoyed yesterday?

(interesting to think of sheets of cake—
to stroll in sheets of cake with bare feet
when you come out and play

with me). Luckily, I still have a way
to contact you, even in your retirement.
Each day I pray

that our good love won’t fade away:
my wits won’t go astray (a late
development you noticed yesterday).

But there’s more than a ray
of hope in my heart
that we'll dig out our old song sheets—
delicious play!

Keep Your Distance

I’m a good companion.
What do I like to do with myself?
I like to shine like the sun.

I’m hanging right in there.
Don’t say I’m past help!
So what do I like to do with myself,

now that my friends are all gone?
(Anyway, I’m not allowed to see them for a month.)
OK, I’ll post pictures in Pinterest

of myself lying in a bed of hyacinths—
you can take a look, but I won’t press
myself on you. Or, I’ll take a watermelon

and blow it up with firecrackers over the river
and post a video on my Facebook story
as it splatters like a mushy sun.

Don’t get close, you’ll wreck your clothing—
seedy pulp all over your vest.
Keep your good companion
at least as far away from you as is the sun!

I'll Fly Away

Dynamic when reading aloud:
I’m performing,
trying to wow the crowd.

Not that I’m not endowed
with charming
perquisites for reading aloud.

I’m not rude
when the crowd is swarming,
begging to be wowed.

I don’t do something crude
like remove my clothing
(but don’t I wish I could).

I say I won’t
but I might be willing
just one time to wow the crowd

and wow ‘em good,
crowd of lonely roving wolves
watching me as I read aloud.
Fly away, little bird!

Poetry as Social Distancing

How can I share my moxie

without violating personal boundaries?—
hot question for poetry.

People might give my work a look-see,
but not if they’ll have to leave their underwear in the shrubbery.
A poet wants to share their moxie

because it’s what they love, what pricks them every day
to get up once again to greet the quandaries
of life, which are the tutelary deities of poetry—

those loving ones who bring joy
and are hiding in the scenery
somewhere—but I’m not entitled to share their moxie;

who they even are I can’t reveal—
probably they’re just new versions of me.
The clothed-elbow touch of poetry

expects you to fall in love by proxy,
so that sharing love's a kind of muggery—
sharing my moxie
despite grave questions.

COVID-19 Volunteer

I don’t want to be remembered as nothing but a jerk

so I’m going to take one for the team
by going back to work

even though I’ll be pushing my mortal luck—
I’ll likely catch COVID-19 and die of lung
congestion. Even less of a jerk:

I won’t waste a ventilator
on myself—who needs me anymore
anyway? I’ll go back to work,

but I'll just fuck off
same as I did when the company paid my lunch
ticket. An easy-money jerk,

I quit my front-office job to drive a truck.
But I’ve got a sneaky hunch
we’ll all be returning to work

in the fields of Glory pretty soon now—what the fuck?
OK, if I can help avert the crunch,
I’ll take one for the team by going back to work,
just so’s not to be remembered as a jerk.

The Opposite of Insomnia

It seems to make a difference to my day
if I sleep well,
but what a difference bad sleep makes!

Just saying my bedtime prayers:
"Please don’t send me to hell,
beloved sleep, that I crave all day!"

When I'm sleeping, no ray
of sunshine’s welcome:
too much light makes

for bad rest. I was going to say,
before truth broke in with its annoying bell:
I’d best like to sleep all day,

light creeping past the window shades
but not my eyelids. Well,
the windows could be unshaded and I still wouldn’t wake

up and make hay in the sun’s gaze:
but the sun sees me even when I’m sleeping like the dead,
dreaming up the difference to my day
my good sleep makes.

War Against the Boring Old White Men

OK, it’s war.
I don’t buy your claim to be a demigod.
Robert Bly was an impostor.

It’s only a problem with male poets,
right? They keep waving their rods
at me. OK, it’s war—

get down off your high whores
and admit you’re a pathetic clod,
like that horrible Robert Bly character,

who said he stole sugar
from the castle but it was just his own ball-barf.
But isn't it overkill to go to war

with these losers? They aren't worth the care.
When we depended on their nurturance, we starved.
They’re only pathetic impostors.

People encourage them as they encourage little boys.
When the little boys grow up to be poets, let’s pay no more
attention to them. OK, it’s war.
I’m not listening to any of you any more.

Piece of Old-White-Male Crap

Gosh, it was predictable!

A woman complained on Facebook about all the old white men vituperating and mansplaining about Donald Trump,

and several of the most boring old white men immediately chimed in on the thread to rebuke her.

Not cool pigeonholing a whole demographic, eh?

You pigeonhole yourself, you piece of old-white-male crap!

Marching in the Good Old Way

Finally having done it—

just marched right through it.
It was a clean, well-lighted

place in the sticks,
maybe near the Tuileries,
wherever they

may be. A secret
encounter of the hoods
on a clean, well-lighted

corner of the street,
we hand over the goods
for knowledge of finally having done it.

Always a ridiculous
amount of foolishness
to be inspected from a clean well-lighted

viewpoint, firm as a brick—
having well-memorized the odes.
Finally having made it
clean and well-lighted!

Virtual Open Mic

What a sweet dish I am!
I have a few minutes,
but why would I want to share myself with a bunch of aggressive performers in a room?

Not coveting fame,
not looking to manage the from-whom and for-whom,
what a sweet dish I am!

I could begin
with my poem about not craving virtual replacements,
now that we’re not supposed to be getting together in a room

anymore. Some Sam-I-Am,
signing up for my five minutes,
among all these other dishes

who are here to perform.
Well, if this were a righteous strip-tease show, I could abide it,
but it’s just a bunch of aggressive performers with their clothes on in a room—

a virtual room,
to make it even more claustrophobic!
What a sweet dish I am!
OK, I’ll sing, but my songs will be butt-naked!

Why I Don't Crave Virtual Interaction

Now that we’re not supposed to be close to one another,
I find that I don’t miss the company.
I don’t miss my mother,

it’s fair to say, though she’s been gone forever—
you understand, I’m exaggerating.
I was very close to my mother

until she left me here to suffer
by myself as I was meant to be.
Then there’s the matter of my father.

My father loved me, but he was always rather
self-absorbed—not much time for me.
I don’t miss my father,

or my mother either, because they are
always here with me, even though long dead.
Likewise you, now that we’re not supposed to be close to one another,

I feel like I can feel you close as ever,
and I don’t know if you’re like me,
but now that we’re not supposed to be close to one another,
I sure do miss my mother!

“Poem” Is a 4-Letter Word

Rhyme words for “poem”:

jeroboam, though some, show some
(not forgetting) modem

olum, ovum
know some, scrotum
do come

so dumb
undergo some
hokum, homem

row-sum, grow some, forego some
grow numb, snow gum
rowan

Minoan, Samoan
protozoan
know hmr, owe hrm, show hmr

throw hrm
blow up, throw up
(not forgetting) triazolam,
mesonotum.

Speaking from the Gut

I wonder if my villanelles could be a narrative poem.

Well, I’ve been writing them for two years now.
My model could be Gordon Lord Byron,

who wrote the epic poem, Don Juan.
Byron could churn out the ottava rima, and how!
so why couldn't the villanelles be an epic poem?

Byron wanted a hero, a yours-true one,
so he chose the rakish character who gets snatched down
into the bowels of hell—in Mozart first, then Lord Byron.

There’s a more-recent treatment by Thomas Mann—
allegory of Nazi Germany,
but Dr. Faustus is a novel not a narrative poem.

Are the villanelles a novel?—there’s the question—
the adventures of Dewey pícaro,
pretty much the same guy as Gordon Lord Byron.

Byron wrote obsessively. It’s hard to read that
whole poem now—why would you, anyhow?
You can start anywhere you want in the villanelles,
you’ll be able to pick up the low hum.

Scary Talk

Now I’m asking, can I walk outside
my house? The National Guard is arresting people
and taking them for a ride—

to the border prisons, probably. I have to hide
in my house to avoid the horrible
fate of not being able to walk outside

my house—when walking outside is THE freedom-ride,
baby! Here’s the church, here’s the steeple,
open the doors and let all the people ride

on this nice Baptist-
Church bus—the loyal and the faithful
all asking, Can I still walk outside

my house, around my neighborhood,
without being arrested by the police
and driven into an alley somewhere—ride

to the morgue? You’re surprised
at how efficiently they turned the key.—
If I walk outside,
I’ll be taken for a ride.

Pantry-Stocking for the Long Haul

What food do we need for our three-week quarantine?

My daughter doesn’t want me to go into stores.
She’s trying to make sure I remain on the scene

until after the virus is gone. So I pick up my phone
(to disinfect my hands), and she tells me I won’t be able to go outside anymore
after Governor Walz’s degree comes down—house-arrest for three weeks

at least! So she’ll do our shopping for us—OK, what will we need?—
Eggs, for sure, and milk, and several dozen bars
of chocolate, about a reme

of toilet paper, twenty-five cans of black beans.
And I just saw an image of the Amelung torso
of Athena, rampant serpents at her feet,

thin bronze spear in her right hand—
she’s all the more
impressive in that she arrived on the scene

purely through an effort of archeological legerdemain.
But I can't believe she doesn't exist—my God, that head-gear!
What food do we need for our three-week quarantine?
A bowl of ambrosia’d make my scene.

Not

To an introvert
enforced separation
feels God-sent.

May all my events
be cancelled—prayer printed
on this introvert’s

bashful tee-shirt.
What was then
an obligation is now God-sent

deliverance,
so let us not be hasty
for a virtual replacement.

Do I really want to sit
looking at myself on my computer screen?
Too much of an introvert

for that shit.
Can we just not
and say we did? For an introvert,
not’s God-sent.

Cornstalk Fiddle and Shoestring Bow

We can still share energy,

even though we’re lonely shut-ins.
I can record myself fiddling

and share it in Messenger—
bereft of rhyme,
but sharing energy

like the dickens anyway,
spending several hours each
day fiddling

until my bowing-arm’s the effigy
of that red-haired thrasher
who garnered energy

in the frolicsome dance scenes
of our grandparents' time—
vain but pretty fiddling

filling the ear with elegies
of harvest, sheaves brought in—
still able to share energy,
singing and dancing to the fiddling.

Wonderwall

Who says anxiety’s irrational?
Being alive in the world is anxiety-provoking.
I walk into the confessional

and there’s a wacked-out priest declaiming Kipling’s “Recessional”
to me—a lesser-breed without the law, hoping
to be found worthy of impossible

mercy. Knowing all human love’s conditional
on cutting japes and silly larking,
I walk into the confessional

and it’s like Groundhog Day all over again,
but this time it’s only me
and my irrational

imaginary loves in processional,
everything given, nothing wasted—
walls of the confessional

blown off in a cover of Wonderwall
by Oasis. All the roads we have to walk are winding
and all the lights that lead us there are blinding.
Hyper-rational transgressional.

People Sending Me Their Poems

Why am I not more pleased
when people send me invitations to read their poetry?
When people just post stuff, I can look

or not look as I please,
but when they tag me it’s like having my contraband seized
at the border—not pleased

to be getting my palm greased
as a gesture of signal kindness from thee.
So I must be abashed and read

your smarmy screed, though I wish I could be relieved
of the painful duty.
God was well-pleased

with His only begotten Son, we read,
whom he bore to bleed for us—a signal pity.
But Jesus spoke into our ear:

you don’t have to heed any unsolicited
messages, even pretty-please,
unless you’re genuinely pleased
to read.

Going Off the Grid

I think I’m going off the grid.

I have no need for electricity.
I’ll keep myself well-hid

by moving to Montana or Idaho
to realize my new mystery-
plan of going off the grid.

I’ll be able to get rid
of unnecessary wires and cables
and be well-hid

from anything that doesn’t carry its
own battery—at night anyhow, which
is when I plan to be awake,

mostly. So what will I do to spend
the time-bucks I’ve saved in the piggy-
bank under my karma-grid?

I’ll play my banjo and make recordings and send
them to you by old-fashioned pigeon-
mail, my dears, when I’ve gone off the grid.
Well-hid. And fed.

Jah Songs

Poems cannot right wrongs.

They only register, they don’t initiate.
Villanelles are yokel-songs.

White, not living on a farm—
villein is a poor fit
for the likes of suburban me. 
                                           You shot the wrong

dude, Mr. Policeman,
just their bad luck to be the subject
of a town-y blues song

like Stagolee or Frankie and Johnny—
rubber-tired wheels of fate—
unmatching, wrong

face picked out of the crowd—
whomever we need to repudiate,
serenade with hangman’s songs,

finally free to join the throng
now storming the gate.
Poems cannot right wrongs.
Villanelles are Jah songs.

A Smile to Prove That Time Is Not Linear

Jotting my history of yesterday,

divided into eight topics.
History radiates

into the future, starting with my weight
and other microscopic
stuff, like the food I ate,

whether or not I hesitated
at the gate, and was I completely misanthropic
or did love radiate

like the spring glow on a bed of radishes,
expressed in my playing and my writing?—
all the pageantry of yesterday

enacted on the lined pages of today—
starting with my gnomic
1+and, to say what radiates

not forward but outward—no searching ray
but a comfortable nap somewhere in my biopic.
All the mishegas of yesterday
lies down in my almanac and radiates.

Having a Cold in the Day of Covid

I might have a cold in the day of covid.
Got some mild chest congestion.
I think it’s just a rhinovirus.

When you’re sick, it can be hard
to refuse invitations
as you should. But when you have a cold in the day of covid,

it’s far best to stay at home. Did
you know there are at least three million
cases of rhinovirus

per year in the US? Did
they have it in the day of Ovid? When did the election
theory start?—chosen to have a cold in the day of covid?

With all these suppositions, it’s hard to feel loved.
We have to buss our kisses from remote locations,
even if what we have is just a rhinovirus—

asking whether God above
loves you, baby, with all your imperfections—
like having a cold in the day of covid,
even if it’s just a rhinovirus.

Enchantment

It’s a mix these days,

with medical appointments and all.
But enchantment still plays

tricks on my eyes and ears—
Belle of the Ball
in my own mirror. Days

of yore I made
myself into a pinball
wizard, but I don’t play

that game
anymore. I spend all
my days

walking around
town, trying not to fall
on the ice—blessedly all-melted today,

when, going up Selby a long ways,
I bought a big plectrum banjo for a song
and carried it three miles
home. Enchantment still plays.

Humpty-Dumpty Sat on a Wall

Gradually awakening to the comedy of it all.

Woke at 27!
But I couldn’t fall

in love because I had to hang on
to my brittle
moral integrity and all.

So I became a responsible
person, asleep at 37,
too dumb not to fail

the opportunity to play with the big boys—
a whole heaven
to be gained if I awakened to the comedy of it all.

Of course, I had to return the call,
still curious at 67—
I fell

for your sexy spiritual qualities,
my dear, edging 87,
gradually accommodating myself to the comedy of it all.
Can't wait to fall!

Reveille

All of me is present and accounted for—
all of my appurtenances.
My feet show my head the door.

Who could ask anything more
of their limerences?
Everyone is present and accounted for.

Knowing I have to cancel the big show
because of the coronavirus—
my secret druthers showing my feet the door,

and my feet don’t need what for—
they’ve learned to walk in complete sentences:
both are present and spoken for.

Not too early to restore
the magic of my most exciting relationships,
heart showing fear the door.

The charm of friendship endures forever
in spite of the death of specific instances
of me, on the roll-call but not answered for.
My feet have shown my soul the door.

Hop High, My Lindy Lou

It’s an obsession, I can’t stop
(I keep doing it and I never get tired of it)
doing the hop.

I should just go clip-pity-clop
like some old lame dray horse, but
I keep on tripping, I can’t stop.

Do they think they can tie me with a rope?
No, I’ll prance the whole wide desert,
doing the hop

to tune my hoof-soles, traveling with my troop.
There’s hot dust in my nose, but I put up with it—
it’s an obsession, I can’t stop

roaming these valleys and these hilltops
and these canyonlands—my old-paint-hoss
hide doing the hop

like a jumping bean on a table top—

table-top mesa, that is, to earn my just desserts.
It’s an obsession, I can’t stop
my hop.

Twelve More Miles to Tucumcari

Just fifty more minutes till my ride arrives.

I can cool my heels on my new living room couch.
My rides are all about who drives.

Always ready for high fives:
you say, Put ‘er there, and I say, Ouch!
Still fifty more minutes till my ride arrives.

This definitely won't be the last time I see my ride alive,
though they like to drive with a foot-pedal clutch,
and that definitely decides who drives,

because I‘m actually more of an automatic guy,
so I ride in the passenger seat in a poetic slouch.
But there are still forty-five more minutes till my ride arrives,

and then it’ll be all about what chimes and what jives
and who has an empathetic touch—
so it really doesn’t matter who drives,

except that it shouldn’t be this white-
haired queer, fluttering their eyebrows.
Just thirty-seven minutes now till my ride arrives.
I’ll ride shotgun, you drive.

We Need Have No Fear (My Friend Calarel 2)

It’s scary
when fate looms in the news.

My fairy

elf is near me

on the couch and sees

all the same scary

stuff I’m seeing,

but they take the long view—

it’s fairly

clear even to yours truly

that the world must change hues,

scary

as the change from blue to clay may be.

I’m born to lose,

but my fairy

elf will still be around when I’m dead and buried.

They will dance in the sun and be renewed—

not so very scary

for my elfin fairy.

The Enchantment of Daily Life

What faces me is loveliness.
But isn’t “loveliness” a pretty abstract word?
Is it more abstract than “horniness,”

for example? Is it only laziness
that prevents me from being as precise as a bird
in the aim of my beak? Birds too experience horniness—

there’s plenty of randiness
in a bird’s attempts to make their way in the world,
but a sublimated horniness

takes over my body and I reek with horsiness—
I mean, when I’m riding in the morning fields
amid the fragrance

of the Venus trees—the puffiness
of the place on our foot that has a bandaid
on it, as I trade my horniness

for the chance to walk in the path of Jesus,
blessed and true because absurd—
facing my loneliness.
Nothing could be more abstract than my horniness.

Neurolinguistics

In memory of Stephen Phelps

Where shall I walk this morning to heal my soul?
Alleys are good because of the garbage and recycling cans,
but all of my organic matter is in my compost hole.

Where my spiritual matter resides is a whole
different question—I guess the pineal gland’s
right here to house my soul,

above my nose, I’m told.
I played rhythm guitar in a band
of chickens trooping to the compost hole—

the 7-Hertz signals knocked them cold,
brains spasmed, beaks choked with sand.
So, to heal my soul,

I’m taking alleys west to the old
Mississippi river—too much oozing mud
today to walk these trails and not be sucked down a ravine-hole,

just as the Book of Life foretold,
into the land
of the dead where souls
may crave the comfort of a wet, warm compost hole.

Trapeze Striptease

Wouldn’t I love to be a trapeze artist,

stepping from bar to bar—
different from being a strip-tease artist, right?—
snatching bucks in a jar.

I’ll be a trapeze-as-you-please artist,
not wearing any clothes—
just taking my strip-tease act on the road
by doing my swan-dive pose.

Dirty Footprints

Trying to find language for how I may be feeling,
writing on rotting foolscap:
I’m on my back, my feet are on the ceiling.

I’m swaying and I’m reeling
to these sexy yoga-dance moves on video,
trying to find language to say what I may be feeling;

and not denying that there’s double-dealing
behind my tacky phrases,
scrawled on my own back, with my feet treading the ceiling.

Whatever sets the kettle boiling,
what comes to me mayhap—
I, uh, think I may be dancing on the ceiling.

Stealing, stealing—my dearest friend, aren't we tasting
terroir-terror on every point of the map,
the deep language for how we may be feeling;

hearing but not heeding
the characters who throw scraps
to dogs—they feed us

crap, with our lives receding,
but not quite ready to hear taps—
trying to find language for how we may be feeling,
leaving dirty footprints on the ceiling.

Cell-Phone Mine

I didn’t bring my computer, glory be!
Walked out late afternoon lightly dressed,
but a song triggered on my

cell phone at Dunn Bros Coffee—
a couple sitting at the table next
pointed out the glorious noise to me

coming from my pocket. I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as the very best
song that’ll ever trigger on my

cell phone—might be
a song by Patti Smith, like “Dancing Barefoot.”
Well, I had to change the glorious he-she

pronouns to you and we
and they and them and me and us. I’ll cast
my destiny with whatever song triggers on my

cell phone last, my Life—future by
past loves guaranteed.
But I didn’t bring my computer, glory be!
A song on my cell phone tripped me.

Sharing Joy Juice

I love my limerences

but I fear them because I can’t stand the heat.
Do I need deliverance

in the same way that crystal microphones
need high-impedance input—I’m red as a beet,
unable to resist these limerence-

ohms, their devastating voltage; my reticence,
as I remember sweet Petula’s downtown streets;
I won’t need deliverance

so much as eloquence to be a conductor
of the bright lights of the city—
each bulb a glowing amorance,

a heart-throb, a beat in the dance, however
I manage to move my feet
clogging deliverance

from lonely fear into the loving radiance
of the eyes of Beatrice—
heavenly droning of the stars
singing the holy limerent gospel of deliverance?

Teff, the Poetry Goalie

How can I write when the cat’s on me?—

cat named Teff,
size of a large salami,

sprawled all up and down my pajamas,
bathrobe of terrycloth.
Hard to write when the cat’s on me—

well, I can put my notebook on my chair-arm
as I lie in this IKEA nest.
How long a salami

am I myself as I stretch my feet
toward the window, light streaming in,
posture bad with the cat lying on me,

as now I turn to the left-facing sheet,
using the cat for a desk?
This large, tail-lashing salami

in my lap is probably going to bolt,
or I’ll get up and let him have my seat.
How can I write when the cat’s on me,
claws prickling my tummy?

Alfred E. Neuman on the Stock Market Crash

Everyone’s on their smartphones all the time
checking the progress of the epidemic;
but I’m not worried, we’ll be fine.

I’m trying to think of a rhyme
for “time”—the toc that follows every tic—
all of us on our smartphones all the time—

we, the prime
reason why everyone is getting sick
to begin with; but I’m not worried, we’ll be fine.

It’d be better for us to camp out in the pines—
playing duck-duck gray duck or duck-duck 
goose—with our smartphones dinging

whenever someone mentions us or pings
us in our email—stack
of dire solicitations; but I’m not worried, we’ll be fine.

Never sure where to draw the line
between serenity and panic.
Trying to put my smartphone down.
What, me worry?—we’ll be fine.

Cogito Ergo Cooked

Speaking from the point of view of the Cogito—

a dubious enterprise.
My mother’s friend has a turkey named Even-So.

A plain blow-by-blow
account, never cracking wise,
straight from the point of view of the Cogito,

whose viewpoint's occasionally rather dim, if I may say so,
but usually brings stars to the eyes
of my mother’s friend’s turkey, Even-So.

My God, how radical
we're getting, now that we have been disguised
in the motley garb of the Cogito—

really just pulling a rope-a-dope,
while the Cogito is distracted by the sunrise—
a turkey named Even-So

stalking around the iron clothesline pole
and always presenting with an alternative
point of view from that of the Cogito—
that of my mother’s friend and her turkey named Even-So.

The Return of Eros

I’ve grown accustomed to my own face,
accustomed to my same old body.
Not a trace

of lewdness in my choice
of activities, one of which is writing.
I’ve grown accustomed to the voice

of Publius Ovidius Naso, considered a hard case
in his day,
exiled to the city of Constanza,

Black-Sea port north of Thrace
and Bulgaria. Augustus banished
Ovid’s accustomed ass

for lewdness, at about the same
time Marc Anthony was lamenting, “All my smooth body!”
What a waste

of feline beauty, old Snake-
of-the-Nile, Cleopatra—last sighting
of the Goddess’s face

for over two thousand years—bright trace
of lust in her marble eyes.
I’ve grown accustomed to the face
of Qetesh.

The Polar Bear's Song

How can I say with what my life is filled?—

with my inversion-filled language—
filled but unfulfilled.

Similar to being liked but not well-
liked—waif left behind on the western passage.
How could I speak what my life was filled

with, after my voice was parched
by loss—fire-hot dead embers
of a love forever left unsaid,

desire held hostage,
passion spilled.
What my eyes have been filled

with—tears to turn a mill,
pouring down the glass selvage
of their almost-fulfilled

yearning—songs sung and voices shared,
all tangled up in amorous connection.
How can I say with what my life is filled?—
queerly fulfilled.