*A special posting for Valentine’s Day*
To Whom It Will Concern:
Do you ache for the quiver in my step
as I approach on soft moss?
Oh, and hello. (forgive me, formality escapes me
when I teeter on the brink of bright flashes)
I’ll begin again:
How are you?
Who are you?
Do you anticipate my arrival,
as I do yours?
I’m afraid I’ve not had much luck.
Swimming upstream in a river of dead fish
slopping down the falls as I shoulder out of the muck.
Put another way: Love has come (and gone) like a pin prick:
it shocks/stings/smarts the finger pad, then
evaporates in the wake of the cosmic accident,
the digit retaining the throb, blood gathering
where surface air meets sebaceous gland.
But then there’s You.
The end of my flopping about,
my sucking of index fingers.
I approach on soft moss.
Do you ache?
I try to remain optimistic,
with my “Will Concern,”
but the kernel of the absolute
lies in its non-existence,
in its very un-American un-guarantee.
Perhaps there is no recipient.
Perhaps Recipient is Writer.
Perhaps I am “going it alone.”
But I’d to think there is a “You,”
a hearth for my heart.
It keeps me light, keeps me
going outside, keeps me
filling mine cup so I can
runneth it over.
My tread is lithe, the moss plush.
Do you ache for the quiver in my step?
The One You’re Waiting For