our_lives_must = [‘end’]
the_suffering = [True] # Read as “the suff’ring”
she = ‘loves you’
love = ‘a string of memories’
alone = bemoan
alas = alone
for poetry in the_suffering:
for variables in our_lives_must:
if None and 1 or 1 and None:
if love.split() or she.replace(‘you’, ”):
the_suffering.escape() and love.admit()
for one_day in our_lives_must:
Weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like and evening star.
The Quiet World
In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
She pressed her lips to mind.
How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.
She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.
Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?
I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,
defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.
Beneath her slip,
the slip of her.
The flint of her.
In dorms and parks, motels
and tents: the din of her.
What I would not have done
for another sip of her.
She swore she’d never love another.
The fib of her.
She kicked off the sheets; I held on,
breathless, through the fit of her.
Good or evil, she was first.
The rib of her.
That she could leave me after all
that I had been to her.
Hands pressed deep
into my mouth. The bit of her.
A lengthy, doe-eyed nuzzle
at the salt lick of her.
the spit of her.
A week spent curled up on the floor,
gutted, sick for her.
Nights she ground my bones
to dust. The grit of her.
Teeth, nails, my name
whispered low. The grip of her.