I call your name and the century turns.

In non-Euclidean geometry, parallel lines

intersect at both positive and negative

infinity. When I saw you last, you were

aglow with the halo of new priorities.

Fear not: the rudiment of therefore,

the agony of meanwhile. We bought joy

from the black market of drunk dusks.

We channeled Galileo with our backs

pinned to astroturf. Lately I’ve been

poaching the green tigers in my memory

palace just to hang their heads on the walls

like it’s good feng-shui, but that’s just a side

racket. The truth is, I’m a stenographer

in the courtroom of loss. Good on you

for getting out of that gig, but I’m not

ready to hand in my resignation letter.

I need to get the whole crime down.

I’m putting bull clips on my intentions

and childproof locks on my promises.

My appeals are nailed to sundials so

they mean nothing in the night time.

My mouth is an almanac of auguries.

My heart, however, is a glass knife—

I don’t care how good you are with it,

you can’t take it to war.