Long ago our love was feral,

it grew over us like ferns and moss

until we felt languid as rotting leaves.

Sometimes we’d give each other flowers,

perfect symbol for failing

to plan ahead. But more than spit

or skin against skin, I love you

for all the things you made

that fell apart. For instance, the arbor

where the robin filled her cup of mud

with blue. Standing over it where it fell

I imagined looking down at my fingers to find

they were feathers. I have been that useless.

I have felt the moon beating on our roof,

blessing the house. I have been that awake.

I have learned about love from sleep,

its pleasure as it slips and you miss it.

More than suck or sweat

of want, I love you as a matter of fact

as you lift the carcass from the bottom of the barrel,

what I made because I am careless,

a dead thing shivering back.