all that light

even if it's not possible
to start completely over,
there is still this:
the day, opening into itself
and you, parting the curtains,
seeing all that light come in.

inventory

this love
is enough
to fill everything.

thanks to the body-delivererswith a nod to Sonya

Thank you to the basketball, the frying pan, the bed.
To parquet, to Teflon, to the count in the thread.
To the court, to the kitchen, to a sphere of moonlight.
To the arc, to the flip, the caress in the night.
To speed, and to patience, and tenderness too.
To teamwork, to solitude, to me and to you.
Thank you to fingertips, to taste buds, to tongue
To shot clocks, to timers, to alarm bells unrung.
Thank you to warm-up, to bite-size, to kiss.
To mascot, to fork, to the hand you can’t miss.
To rules and to recipes and the laws of attraction
Thank you to instinct and fervor and action.
To wins and to clean plates and perfect romances.
Thank you even for misfires and failures, last chances
Thank you to solid, to liquid, to skin.
To outstretched, and outward, and always, within.
Thank you to grace, and to nuance, and subtext.
Thank you for this touch, and the next, and the next.

let each gift take hold

Stop moving so fast, racing past street signs
like a runaway. Don't abandon your luggage
at the nearest depot. Unclench from the desire
to diminish, then disappear.

Come inside. Take off your shoes. Stay for dinner.
Here is a cup of tea, an oatmeal cookie, a novel.
Here is a fireplace, a pair of slippers, bed.
Here is the moon, and above that, the heavens.
Here is a good dream you might wake up from.
Here is everything you see, and everything you
can't quite. Now lift your head up,
with your hands if you have to,
and let each gift, singly and in its own time,
take hold.