How can I love you,

     and you,

     and you,

     and all of you

                 tonight?

I came with one heart, I thought.

Like one name, I thought.

Singular, I thought.

Like a desire, I thought.

But broken parts of me race the lightning striking three or four different skies.

There was just one sky, I thought.

(In one

the pulsating, night-club beats wreak havoc on the stars

burning them like cigarettes, in self-made jars that trap a sliver

of tomorrow’s sunlight.

In one

the shortest distance on a map

in some memory one long, long day

filling with sound’s travels,

unlike light, which empties.

In one

day breaks like one long breath in two.)

How can I love you tonight?

When words fry on a skillet

and bubble and blister

and torrent through my veins like blood fat,

like arrows, like spatulas, always landing their aim

for they always land,

even if it’s a cloud or sizzle or aneurysm that takes them

never to be heard from again.

When the rings on my spine

list my qualities as fingertips,

mouth hovering like rosary beads

chronicling every cell, every wound,

every fleeting tomb of breath.

Only what you’ve once noticed

may you forget.

In hindsight

I’ve plucked the last dandelion in a June carpet.

            Now you,

and you,

and all of you,

run footless in my dreams.

When eyes are vacant

motels for the good and bad in others,

and the front desk receives unfamiliar packages

strung with verses

interpreting some old, fond silence –

sound fills, remember?

Light empties, forgets.