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.