some things are not nameable,
the way you look at me and the constancy
with which you are inconstant.
other things are named:
walls, granite, steel, surrender.
i am the shrug in your shoulders,
the ache in the soles of your feet.

it used to be quite simple,
just hanging up the phone.
but in this dark, dingy place,
the etymology of abandonment
requires a different tone altogether.

the puritans learned to rejoice when they were challenged. they thought the harder life was, the more god was testing them; and therefore, the more he thought they could achieve as god's beloved children. it is a singularly sensible theory for humanity.

like energy, a million joules, a thousand electrons jostling for a position around the coveted nucleus of love, disaster, magic. holden caulfield, am i free of you yet?

you will always be lake erie to me,
the boy who provided the smells of summer.
you will always be that room,
burning with heat and exploration
and aching for cold, clean rest.

i have never chosen to believe in
unrequited love, never accepted
that love can be anything but mutual.

the whole world is heavy,
and perhaps i am too old to field its weight.
the whole world is young,
and perhaps i am too brazen to appreciate its strength.

noah built a boat, unquestioning,
in a deserted arid desert.
and god began the flood when noah's wife
and sons were not quite yet on board,
began the rains
just as the last child ran from his home.

the whole world is strange,
and perhaps i am too silent to survive.

when i was young,
all things were dolls:
imagined life, impressioned health.
when reality sets in,
and life is understood as
the dirty, squalling thing that it is,
i am inclined
to keep that younger viewpoint.
what cannot be solved,
when bestowed with greater vivacity
and viewed with greater affection?