empty all the sandbags
piled around my heart
to build a sandcastle
on your un-shore.
stand inside the tower
of all our falling down,
hang my love like a sail
and lead me to your storm.
When I was trying to quit smoking
and we drank white wine from Mason jars,
you called my freckles cocoa powder
and I called your green eyes
I am learning how to be a grown-up
who pays bills, cooks her own dinners,
and doesn’t cry at words like
I think I just want to be friends.
The thing is this:
Love is an organic thing.
It rots and softens.
“The love of complexity without reductionism makes art; the love of complexity with reductionism makes science.”
Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: http://powells.us/YK2hPo
My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing
Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.
Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers’ terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars —
Misfit in any space. And never on time.
A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.
Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love’s unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.
Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses —
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.