sets me whirling like a barber pole.  Understand,
I am most myself when my heart’s all flashing,
my hands cupping water like a joke to throw
in your face.  Your body, crooked in laughter
I conjured, is a boulevard breaking under the sun,
freckled with leaves—the street I grew up on
and carry inside my feet.  Your grin is the ditch
I played in, wet and singing with mice. Darling,
when your whiskers curve at my turn of phrase,
when your eyes mist in recognition, a meadow
billows in my chest.  I want only to keep
falling the way starlight tumbles to Earth,
or smaller, as a sick bird falls from a tree,
gravity’s rough hands pulling it to the ground.


Photo By: Bryon Lippincott