How immediate it is to love.
The crumbling surface hovers slowly.
I stood holding a can of black beans
and saw damp wooden frames tossed
boldly. I stood soaked in rain as vague
miles aged and grieved and plagued, I let
her smile return. I wept for the rodent, his
torso stretched from his soul, his ambition
flourished his death and yearning he met
colder streets than those I slept on.
My father’s steps drenched and I howl endless.
There is no moment left without your carved breath
upon my clothes. You are what lovers hold; that boast
of memory so close as to be permanent.