Romanticism

Why not consider the squirrel
in its leafy surround.
It may be in a state
of impersonal grief
for all I know.
Nature morphing
and dying and
looping all around it.
Something we share,
silence and time,
and we go on, blinking.
There will be stories
of understanding.
Stories filled with forgetting
and paradox, with
trap doors and mirrors.
An inflection of the real.
What is the real
but a reflecting pool
when I saw you once
ripple and wave.
All I see right now
is the world
playing air guitar
and I’m here now,
breathing.
This is what I know.
To dart is an intransitive verb
and moves freely.
A dart draws blood
when it’s a noun.
Sure, you like it tough
but bruise easy.
Exquisite the veins
in a dragonfly’s wings.
In truth I live
in a multiverse
but still want you.
In my mind
I am counting ribs
in alabaster light.
Yesterday I was holding
a gemstone key
but threw it into the sun
to make it impossible
to recognize god.
Yesterday I was not
a funhouse doll.
Today I am counting
squirrels in my yard.
Today I am in love
with a dead letter office at sunset.
Leaves, veins, ribs, sunsets,
all turning to letters.
These letters becoming
a love poem, why not?