Sunday, May 18, 2008


I make you up as I go along,
each curve and bone my eye
detects with linear curiosity,
springing forth
before me as a line from my
(running out of ink, there's more
where that came from)
lazy and sure like our daughter
when we've left her in a room
with some colorful
Finger lapsing into hand, your
hair a curling tributary
into muscly rivers--
I notice things that startle
me--how could I have
overlooked that beautiful
wrinkle in your cheek
that tells me how one day I will be
and still I will cook you breakfast and
love you and
that wrinkle,
for I was the first one to notice it,
the only one,
and this makes me yours for
caressing your every crease
with my paper.
Until that cheekline, our parenthood seemed
only incidental, a happy
stork misplacing--but now
I see you now and twenty years from now,
when I will love you with twenty more
years of
skin-gazing, of
mapmaking, and this wormhole
lets me love both the now and future us,
and every next week
aches my throat with today's
each on the other, a log cabin,
until I feel that I shall corporeally burst.
Curving your
neck with the slow spontaneity of
my wrist's discovering,
I take a last squinting look at my
feeble, lovely attempt to suggest
your newness, to record for future
generations this relic of my religion,
which will be studied one
day under dusty glass and glasses
as we
are together
climbing cloud trees.
And now I smile, and
you smile, and I will
change a diaper and you will set the
table, and
tomorrow we will
find each other out again.

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