The Language Lovers Use
after "La Vie," a painting by Picasso
and already bickering. I lay awake
We will not ask what it's like to be
on the sketched grass, black and blue hissing into the green
Earlier that day, we sat near mirrors
caught more than wan echoes of the bay
window, so we measured
In a roomful of honest looks, there is nothing more
As night fell, her quietness rivaled the moon.
but the ugly side
If only a fire hydrant had burst in summer,
but we were in Hell. We are both from there. Now, we shift
and that cannot think us out of love, or back in love.
that it will go on
flying in a morning as cool as her
The nipple of an apricot,
making oil into skin.
I curl into a shell inside you, wanting everything
All birds have vanished from the mournful palette of the room.
He said, to make a space that works,
it gently or boldly, something
cut the cost of their renovation
He had recently finished a series
beauty, seeing grammar in what you'd think was nothing, nowhere.
It is (not) too late to begin again.
Over and over, we have understood nothing
A man takes the form of a bird.
the ground a hedgy type of flight,
The names of birds don't matter now. The lines
without names at all. I think of us crying
parchment, making it deeper, cooling graphite,
into a museum. I thought you would walk through
admit that, even though you entered, I didn't
I was numb as light, march-light
the red arcs of birds getting through, making