Something Sappy, Get Over It

I’ve Never Written You a Love Poem

How about:
this morning under the cirrus strained light,
in between the skrees of our rude electric bird
when you gripped into me,
to thread us, lead us heavier
back down into the sinkmud of sleep,
our learned bends and jointures
burrowing us down past beds and floors,
squirming us into the deep loam
where the cicadas cyst,
past root works and dog forgotten bones,
and under-rivers and oil seas,
into the shared inner world we only know…

could be why I love you but—

the ritual way you hollow out every baked spud,
twisting the tines like a drill bit
until the white soils of the potato let go
into a hill you sweep together for later
sliver of butter and flurry of salt,
and then move to the two halved skins,
which now look like a severed deflated football
massacred in a game played by scissors or lobsters,
and how the whole time you ‘ow’ and ‘oh’
at the heat of your surgery patient
and then nibble that salted epidermis like
you’re holding an edible playing card…

is so something I never tire of it.