Swarm

*Written November 2007, this is a completely edited version of the original.

I.

Electro-static cling
and something like a spark,
where all great poetry stems
from disappointment
like when you fell in love with E.
Much like a church, you said it's
the way light embraces her
and passes through you (oh,
these fiber optics under our skin!).
easily you dropped to your knees
and quickly you stood,
repetition practiced as a child
and perfected as an adult
who is nowhere near fearful of
absent consequence.

II.

To you,
the night is a parking lot where
you can tell strangers your secrets.
when you look in the mirror, you call yourself meek.
From a bar stool, you told me I was Anne Frank,
which held no meaning then (as it doesn't now),
but I'll admit, that plagued me,
lying awake on a tiled floor,
because we all end up there sometimes,
and sometimes it doesn't feel so bad
to feel so god damn cold.

III.

I keep a photograph of D in my breast pocket
and finger it when I think of songwriting and you
crooning to the moon,
and when you aren't singing,
you speak to me and I say where things have
gone wrong.
Fire alarms will sound in the distance
and it is then you realize
we are insolent and crude.

IV.

Oh daybreaks, nightbreaks,
midday work shifts!
Let me enthrall you, believe you,
forget you, receive you!
These rucksacks are full,
but these pockets are empty;
gathered and roach-like
I'll spread my wings!
Into your windows!
Under your bed!
Darling, how love is a swarm!

V.

When it rains,
I am the ambassador of language,
the one to say all of the pretty things,
not about rain,
but the tumblers that possess the rain
and me.
Call my bluff,
get a good look at my hands--
dry, cracking,
longing to touch,
to scrape, to peel,
to ache, to need,
to know what it means to be released,
and I promise one day I'll say your name
and not wince,
I promise I will never save grace again.