turner’s creek road

you asked me whether i was alright to drive and
i said, yes, naturally, because i will be driving to you
and nothing shall distract my perfect course.

and you asked me whether i had wearied of the bleeding and
i said, no—because i am useless as a shotgunned can thrown out
without tempests goading on my green insides to hiss
as rainy curtains drown my chest in tears.

and you asked me whether i still found it beautiful
despite everything and a thousand times yes—
what isn’t to love? the sun is gorgeous, sky is darkly blue
the air like late September—and you are here with me,
wearing your blue swimsuit
as we sit by the water and talk on meaningless things,
smiling at each other while our fingers gently touch.

for where could i find anything nicer,
indeed, holier
than you?

because you are the moon and all that hangs thereby;
you are the sun in all its times
and sweet concatenations;
you are the dusk-land gleaming quietly
and whenever i think of lovely things
my mind is knit to you.

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