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As I lilt and sway to the noisy fuzz of a biplane’s flight and ponder

the etymology of the word “indicted”

I slide heart-first into other thoughts,

like those of you, sleeping next to me, quiet as a pear.

The shapely mornings we have, the ones that last past the morning trains,

with wisps of steaming coffee and the curling smoke from toaster ovens,

and the hurried ones that slip by in the back of taxis


Were I to shake off all the sleep I’ve ever earned or had,

it still wouldn’t match all the glorious bouts of not-sleeping we do.

Or, also,

the subtle ingenious force of your fingers jabbing my ribs,

tingling my insides and spine something marvelous,

in the lush meadows of our laziest afternoons,

as I rustle your hair and tug at your earlobes,

hold your head in my hands,

sumptuously necking on park benches

without clocks or phones to keep track of us.

There are no arms that hold me the way your arms

hold me.


(like how you look taking off your sunglasses to put on your regular glasses without seeing me notice)

just so we could find

there are only infinite ways

to be kissed on the mouth,

we might carefully plan to stroll amok

in the celery and lettuce of our least repentant weeks,

or slash sunflowers the size of serving plates to decorate a hallway,

just so as to not have any pesky pedestals get in the way

while we’re tossing sugar packets over a shoulder.

And to think —

like pebbles scraped from a boulder, then shined to a careless sheeny blaze —

Nietzsche, that solitary flamboyant pragmatist, descended into insanity at the age of forty-four;

and he was supposed to be dynamite.

Being brave here with newfound stamina in chilled basements passes the term limits;

Brutalist, of course, to careen us back together again;

before late becomes too soon

and yet another year wanders away without asking.


set that furious passionate cat of yours atop my head,


I cannot smile.

I was born ready for my close up.

The only writer who matters

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