A man of my gender once said to me,
Let it go, and it will go away from you.
If at the end I realize I thought I wanted
to be a poet but deep down I really wanted
to be a poem—so what?
Mary is lonely.
Said Tomaž about Mary.
Whiff of freesia in architecture library!
I architect into a teenager, all of seventeen.
St. Louis summer, hello!
You took my breath away with your damp blond hair
before I knew how to handle clichés.
All our future days in that moment
Turtles in a pond. Singing frogs. The cat
you worried about because your grandmother
insisted on mixing her hair in cat’s meals.
The same grandmother who haunted my dreams
when I visited your Wisconsin palace.
You kiss on my Bonnie, you marry on Bonnie!
Two bottles at the 34th Street Café, Tomaž!
And I walked out the back door looking
for the bathroom.
My love is a sprinter, a current piercing
stone, branches, moss.
You want a lick? says love to salmon.
And a lick is born.
You, Tomaž, both have and are
a love like that.
I was twelve and you fifty
when we stopped sharing the soil of a fable
Mary thinks more about you than about me.
When we met, she talked about squirrels
When she put the cigarette out, she talked about
Mary, I too am lonely.
I love colors, and the salty part of the wrist.