The not-so-rough and slightly tumble
We’ll kiss and I’ll say I love you
going to get the mail, then coming back
with a terribly important flyer
for termites or tires, say I loathe you
to not boringly reach out for her
in exactly the same way—
a translation she knows to make,
as she knows she can punch me hard
in chest or shoulder and I’ll wag
inside and live longer
touching her than if we had never
held hands—
I think it was Baudelaire who wrote,
I love you I love you I hate you
I embrace you I instate you
I predate you I mate you
I conflate you
with everything good, as I should,
if you will bite my forehead,
I will let you in—
or Rimbaud, whose life was sad,
with no chance to wonder
if John Dos Passos ever rode a horse
in the waves off Majorca
and no one like Eve
making spaghetti for dinner
or to think of in a manner
that doesn’t feel like thought,
with no carry the one
to it, no what’s the deal
with Derrida about it—
and when we walk
as we walk every day,
I find myself saying hello
every few minutes, as apparently
I did as a kid to my parents
each time I ran in or out of the house,
as if I’m not so good
at object permanence or distance,
not so interested in missing a chance
for the jolt of the feeling
of meeting her again
again and again—
by now you’re probably wondering
how close I am to perfect—
the only mistake I’ve ever made
is not thinking of her as naked or me
as equally so beside her every chance
there is—
the chance of now
and now a new now has arrived
to replace the old now
with brand-new shining nowness—
but live and learn—
live and strip and make love
and learn—
live and strip and make love
and get old and learn—
lots to do, lots to do
