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.