FOR HIM

There is an art to waiting patiently.

It is grace in restraint and calm in expectation,

and there is a virtuosity in wanting without receiving,

strength in denial, fortitude in disappointment.

And so it is with longing, that curious emotion between patience and desire,

that resides in the most tender part of the soul,

unresolved, unsettled,

but achingly beautiful, nonetheless.

INFATUATION

take these reckless sighs I breathe

and this weakness in my knees

take this lurid sideways glance

these giddy words of happenstance

take this wetness between my thighs

take these shudders from my spine

take these tingles in my limb

sand passion’s promise from within

take my heart and its rapid beat

take this warm blush from my cheeks

take this quiver from my lips

and these secrets from my hips

take all these bits and parts of me

take them all and love me

love me

SUMMONER’S DANCE

When once my love I wished to see,

but longest night kept him from me.

I took a chance to dance about,

with spin and twirl I cast night out.

The light of moon I drained away,

rid sky of stars without delay.

I dismissed dark with wave of hand,

dispelled night’s mist away from land.

Like this I turned the night to day;

like this I saw time melt away.

The sun in sky did beckon rise,

and mortal men did so oblige.

And once again I found him here,

next to my heart, so near and dear.

STOP TOYING WITH ME

Hey, Clock,

I see the games you play,

taking your sweet time while you

make me wait

for him.

Oh yeah, Clock, I’m talking to you,

you and your boys. . . .

I saw what Minutehand did:

strolled between four and five,

stopped to chat

(plotted against six, seven, and eight, I’m sure),

the nerve. . . .

And Secondhand is no better—

decided he’d play Minutehand

by making seconds to minutes—

even as I watched.

It’s a treachery, a total betrayal—

And Hourhand? He’s the worst.

Chimed the hour delayed on purpose,

but when I’m late for work,

he can’t move fast enough,

and when I need a little extra sleep,

he’s right there—early even.

Yeah, Clock, I’m mad at

you and your cohorts ’cause you know me,

and you know I’m

missing him,

needing him,

wanting him,

but you play your games with me

and make me wait

for him.

AS STING IS MY WITNESS

I’m an Englishman in New York

searching for signs of the apocalypse

(or maybe just hints of a small upcoming disaster),

but there are no signs,and the evidence is clear:

history will teach us nothing.

Maybe losing you is inevitable,

because I know

how fragile this love is,

but seven days without you

is like a dagger straight to my heart.

I want to forget about the future

and live in this here and in this now

with you, my desert rose

on a brand-new day,

a lithium sunset as our background

because I’m mad about you.

HAVE NO DOUBT

and when it’s all been exhausted

the endlessness of infinity

the perpetuity of forever

the boundlessness of eternity

and still a second should remain

for you I’ll steal the glow of moon from the bleakest night

I’ll kidnap the shade of trees on the hottest day

and I’ll plunder the crash of waves from the stormiest of seas lest you should

ever wonder

if I loved you

THE PROPOSAL

It is a slow work, making the right hand

and the left hand come together. Tedious, but

patience is a virtue, and so is passion.

The metronome is a relentless teacher, persistent, and

demands obedience. It will tick tick tick

its instruction, and fingers will slide

over yellowed ivory keys once, twice, a dozen times,

a hundred times.

By the glow of an antique gaslight,

a melody will take shape.

It will slip out the crack of the open window

and float on fog and mist.

Cleverly, spontaneously, he’ll use it

to set the mood, and on a night

where stars like pearls from a broken necklace are

scattered in the sky,

he’ll profess his love for her.