A love poem is a poem of pursuit.
Each word catches your
earlobe, tries to pull
into a body
a biology to pick apart.
A mouse roams your eyes in pursuit
of the cream of your
pupils. What pull
the morning has on the down
of your body…
I’m falling apart.
All this searching, this pursuit
of your hair, your
eyes, gravity’s pull.
the creases of your body
follow each other, as if playing each a part
in their own pursuit.
What I'm trying to say is your
hands are suns. They pull
space together, up, down:
Out there appears the body,
a universe apart.
What nibbles at the corners, travels the maze in pursuit
of things larger than your-
self: fingers, touching your eyes? Tug, pull
and scratch the body:
there is more to do, more than one part.
I suppose I can’t know the science of your movements, yet my pursuit
is wholly good. What counts is balance. Your
own lies in the pull
this spectrum of light trickles down
into the nooks of your body.
There are days I’d like to spend inside one, if only for a small part.