she can’t move without
stealing the breath out of my universe with her.
where would I begin?
how does one take apart a garden of eden girl
and touch a woman after the fall?
I know only little ways
when she needs who knows what all.
will it take a lifetime to begin to uncover her?
shall I take off my shoes?
she has turned this tired town into holy ground.
she makes my pen stagger across any scrap of handy blank,
makes me think all these dagger thoughts,
dream all these blurry dreams,
run all these endless miles,
throw something at a sleeping sky
hoping to wake up the night,
break the dark starry window,
flood the drowsy world
with her unexpected shattering light.
how would I possibly live near her,
breathe her exhaled air,
drink her in,
unshackle her wonder and live?
this has nothing really to do with her
the mouth of her well,
my mouth on her myth,
her myth in my mouth,
telling the whole world
what they’ve already heard.
but I’m not love’s iconoclast.
and I’m probably not the last,
to write these tired lines of love
onto the face of things
until by some miracle
I say something that hasn’t been said before
about the trapdoor
underneath her kitchen table
in the hardwood floor.