Love Song (this one rhymes...weird!)

If I were a windmill, I would grind up against you.
And, being thorough,
Continue to turn.
Please, though it may burn,
And the bottom of my floor
Is dusted; the door
Terribly hinged and the latch
Broken with a catch
When you open it a crack,
There is song in touch,
The stone, my back,
Your traces. Much

I've thought of you, and things that linger:
Your finger
Against mine.
Windmill, salt and grain.
Lengths of song, where it rests.
Winter, warmth, our chests,
And, what,
As if there were some answer
Cleaner than the mouth of a cut
Around a cord of wood, or
With more purpose?
Ultimately, it is the grain
The windmill is dependent upon:
Therein lies the song.

Lady, the potatoes are done, mixed
with softened garlic, onions,
noise from the outside and the smoke
that wafted out the window
but caught a bit on the spider web in the corner
I am afraid to kill
or move, as the creature still lives
and so I ask myself every day,
Will eggs be lain suddenly
or will we live pleasantly,
the crowds outside, reggeton
and barflies not bothering either of us
as if noise were not a simple fact
rather a mere stroke in the curve of a letter;
though, thinking about it now,
so integral to the making of things
so then again, do I kill the spider.