Morning—when the air conditioner's on
I can't hear my self think. I want to grab
her like a sound out of the air and hold
her in my mouth like words. Sometimes I hear
the lawnmowers outside making music, when
the grass is fresh cut it sticks to your feet
and won't come off. If she were on me when
the dawn began, if she were on the earth
the way a flower is, if she were on
my mind I wouldn't die. The ceiling fan
wobbles a bit, I whisper to her poems
in some language unknown. If she were on
my self and moving I'd forget the words
to every song and love her without thought.
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