Not the fervent sentiment
of your squinting heart
that strains to catch the fickle
glance of celestial fathers-

I want a simple candle
to extinguish with my irreverent
tertiary breath.

A request you don’t need to contort
into a transcendental query: A means
to get by, a lottery I can bet on,
just a few more miles, a car ride to
bring him home. All of those
immediate, desperate simplicities
you dare never entreat

are the seething desires
of my dismantled heart.
You see, the shortest distance is not
a pilgrimage or even a leap
of faith, and my hands are made
for letters scratched on paper napkins
the witless strife of love you needn’t
close your eyes to feel

and some things we must guard 
more zealously than the altar,
the terrible caprice and spin
of mysterious ways.



is that me
in your poem?
you asked,

and I scarcely
had breath
to answer

as our skies began
to cleave
in uneven halves
of heaven

the bright meridian,
splintered stars
and the matchflick

strike of flame,

the harmony of
our fume
already becoming