Steeped in the tea kettle’s whistle, thinking of the you you made for me,
I toggle my wants and repulsions to the beat of your inattentiveness.
Last night I dreamed I played a flute again and talked, like Yeats, of poetry,
Our love for it and each other large like it was on the day we now call once.
I toggle my wants and repulsions to the beat of your inattentiveness,
Drawing us, each to the pitch of our own uncertainties, toward a single line,
Our love for it and each other large like it was on the day we now call once.
I want to sit for hours in the labor of articulate sweet sound, like this.
Drawing us, each to the pitch of our own uncertainties, toward a single line,
Where we shed the rhythms of the noisy set to keep time with one another.
I want to sit for hours in the labor of articulate sweet sound, like this.
Thinking of the you you made for me at one summer’s end.
***
Thinking of the you you made for me at one summer’s end,
I want to sit for hours in the labor of articulate sweet sound, like this.
Where we shed the rhythms of the noisy set to keep time with one another,
Drawing us, each to the pitch of our own uncertainties, toward a single line.
I want to sit for hours in the labor of articulate sweet sound, like this.
Our love for it and each other large like it was on the day we now call once.
Drawing us, each to the pitch of our own uncertainties, toward a single line.
I toggle my wants and repulsions to the beat of your inattentiveness.
Last night I dreamed I played a flute again and talked, like Yeats, of poetry.
I toggle my wants and repulsions to the beat of your inattentiveness.
Steeped in the tea kettle’s whistle, thinking of the you you made for me.
