On Love: While Listening To The Penguin Cafe Orchestra
I stand in our secret corner of snapped grass
and aim everything left inside of this liquid
soul, bled out of unrecallable dreams
and bandages, at you, and our new fumes.
Cigarettes and sex, recently reckless,
sensible breakfasts. Yes, we’re waking up
earlier, per your request. But it’s all demented
charades, my stomach aches are brighter now.
My words are still everything and nothing
they were supposed to be, and for some cosmic
reason it all feels suddenly wrong. The sunlight
won’t change that. But I’ve been taught by
that sphere of fire, so alien, so tranquilized,
that if I can wake up early for anyone, It’s you.