Not too early to think about love.
Too early to do anything about it, to shave its bristles, to brush the night
off its teeth and tongues, to feed its animals’ hunger.
Still, love rouses me when you, its downy cover, shift and I
am bare to winter. Loves wakes me then, and for a moment I am
in its cave; I shudder at our unlit world
too far from the wall switch that reclaims dimension.
You are gone; it doesn’t matter why. Love is the panic that grips me,
the patter and pattern of it that tells me I’m midway through
its final page or its last verse or the sheet of its music tossed aside.
I want to run to its curtains, fling them open, view
its embers, its lamplights and dust on its streets of Manhattan.