Lure
By all reports, this thing between us
could be a machine that flies a little and stops,
or moves like a slow hump
of sea water before the wave crashes, or like
a fog rubbing its back on this city,
or blueberries, or even a mirror.
They tell me it will not
alter. Would that my kisses
had the permanence of tattoos.
Would that this made statues of the world's salt and sky.
Would that it tasted good
while I stumble through grief.
Would that this became uncountable.
The world offers itself to us,to try to make this,
to make you say you will stay, to make you be the bread and the knife. I know that.
I would take everyone's allotment of words
to say this, over and over.
Come here.
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