Girl

She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.

I Worry You Just Want To Play

I love to discover you
in fragments. And to study
your eyes, quick and thoughtful,
brilliant as stars. And I love
to read into them
as they promise me poems
of oak and desire and early rain.
I love how your eyes are like
patterns of thought,
now what seems full,
now sparse, now quiet.
In them, I suffer my own private drama.
I worry you just want to play.
I love that you are the house
beneath my home. That I have built
you to be, through stormy weather
and pregnant skies. Your eyes handle
all types of conversations.
And I love when a thought of you
hits me, like a terrible, iron joy.
Beyond human love, it unlocks
the door to my soul with its key.
I love how your eyes call me into
your long life with a language of urgency.
With the breath and bones of you,
with your windows and doors,
and sunlight on every sill.