You’ve stopped up my pen

my well, my pad, you’ve stopped up my pen, for I scribe on you every night,
pinning my anger to the ground, you hold fast

my million pieces, my puzzle, curiosity arousing me over and over
the horizon of this sparrow’s eye,

my perfect, my storm, I am wall-eyed and hooked wallowing
in the night so young an infant, the day still suckles with

my revelation, my special–burned into, an image, cloth
buried in a broken body

my mouthwash, my goodnight, I may never brush my teeth,
and gum your neck at thirty,

my lion, my lamb, doodles on the page became your name,
the softest thorns of the vineyard snag my skin,

my friend, my lover, your experiences, story, and knowledge
poured over an altar for me.
and all you get is I
will love you more than knowledge,
more permanently, more pertinently than life,
for life, for you.

Little things

“Goodnight, my child,”
She tucks me in;
“Tower! Plane! Explosion!”
NYC defined in charades:
Unrolling the tucked coat collar
of your lover on a windy day,
Smirking at the “All Male”
neon bar sign flashing pink;
The pebble rolling around
angering your sole;
Stubbed toes and day after day grace
on a littered road of rocks.