The Fool
Danielle my love, my sweet
What’s happening to me?
This slow knife your pushing into my chest
Wearing your shades in the pool
Hair down, post-full submersion
You make me wanna cry and scream…
You are 22 and I am 28
You speak with a Long Island accent
And I speak snarkily, blandly, minimally
You don’t even know I write these poems
Or how I feel about you
And I know nothing at all now
The torment erases everything…
You are my soul’s howling storm
Your simple, bulky walk
Like a slightly boastful child
And the easy laughing manner
An early spring eternal
Let me jump into your garden!
And your 8 million soft and subtle expressions of joy
Are enough to map over my entire desirous being from my
3rd grade first crush to my future’s final kiss,
That ghostly woman-to-be, in the soft sweet grays beyond,
Far forward, within the hour of my death…
All this, my Wonder, my New Purpose,
In attempt to write you out of my mind
And move on, though I fear I’m merely watering love plants
And watering on, I set out to jog
I will pound along the pavement,
My fists glistening in the dying sun
My mind reaching for yours
Rushing! Rushing for your spirit
Somewhere the sprawling summer city.
Here comes the fool: running, rushing in.
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