No tiny delight, I confess,
in the hard-earned calm, the
great clearing of cardboard,
guide a screw through stubborn
drywall for Blanche, for
Dorothy, the ambient splash,
sauvignon blanc from the freezer
into the wanting mouths
of our mason jars – to us, lover! –
for Rose and Sophia, we reminisce
already about the U-Haul, those
stairwells and that mid-morning
escape, watch our city disappear,
spectacular, through the box fan
in the living room window.
Love not
the burning star, not the
MDMA blur of the dancefloor tangle,
shrunken pupils and breakneck want,
bigger, the director shouts, this time,
hold the glass shard in your heartbeat,
my darling, to love you
is another cinema entirely,
love now
a glass of tapwater, bedside delivery,
the quiet ritual of
wiping the toilet seat, of
a Pop-Tart split by halves,
paradise in the eye of my
beholder, away from all the
hurricanes and their prying eyes.
Has it dawned on you, every
nightfall, we grow older together?
So we revel in the 3DS lighting – my
Furret! your Politoed! – cross
at the ankles as we journey,
mine, yours, boxes and hex keys
and no home for our books
just yet, Chinese food on
moving box lids as we take a
break and build, my sketchpad
architect, as we dwell beneath
the lime lighting
of the stanza surrounding.
michael king 