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it’s hard to name what matters
when the cup floats aimlessly
in its own turbulence. reading their poems
each timid night, hungry for an infection
that will ignite this fever: let’s call it a tepid inferno.
if you invite me into your house
i’ll loiter. this idle passion spilling around
us like a sticky syrup stain. sweet but vexing.
you want to lower your face to lick it clean
but we all know your action will only make it worse.
how can you tell- in an hourglass- if you are
draining or being buried? every mountain
is the midst of crumbling as soon as it is born.
all we’re doing here is stealing fireflies to set them free.
look what we can do together. what we have done.
so much of boredom is love. why else are you here
with me until the last line?