Sometimes my flailing
burnt-by-the wind heart
grows alarmed and pushes
my sentiments aside
and in their place
grow lists enumerating
ostrich feathers and tin-can
telephones to encode
the ratification of love.
The only way to touch
a poem is with the mouth.
I put this one in yours
and yours in mine
and for a moment
the lonely air between
us is filled with birds, leaves
and contrails underlining
the honest sun
under which I fail
to embrace you,
but don’t worry, that is
all my poems are doing
these days. Know that
although my words
often overwhelm me
and I grow unable to manage
their winds, the only ships
in my heart that are listing
are listing towards your shores.
