I have the ancient blue stone on my windowsill…

I didn’t know how to love you.
Hummingbird coated in resin.
Or the space between our hands.
Could mean what we said about the ocean.
How it’s full and not full at the same time.
I’m pretending a heroic courage.
Feeling the want of nothing.
A willingness to do nothing and be nothing.
Can I stop thinking of myself and claim myself at the same time?
Swamps tying into springs.
It’s survival or death.
At this point a warm pancake.
Holding my fork in front of me.
Watching the dining room light flicker.
It’s a dead person’s wish to feel nothing.
I’m amazed the love was born at all.
I can talk about myself.
Pull my fingers all the way back so they hit my wrists.
Moving freely.
If the heart is swollen and doesn’t want anyone other than itself,
Has something gone wrong?
Tempted to be annoyed today but was not.
I’ve dropped four dishes in the past week.
I’m older. In a plain way. More wrinkles.
And apathy. So I’m mellower.
The moon is blank like a moon disappearing into its navel.
If only we could have aligned just right
I’m in the woodshed with my old trusted hammer.
Or am I a river? Boundlessness?
I have seen the good in the world.
Am I trapped here? No, this is it.
Even the starry sky will end.
Maybe the morning was different.
An extra twinge of old hurt in the air.
When the ego went out searching for a mate.
But came back with a pile of leaves.
Do you see anything other than crickets in the cricket dark?
The lake wretches.
I wish I could hold you like something ancient.
A piece of crumbling wall.
Like your body must have come from my body.
Is nothing but my own.