All my love poems are to her and everything and stupid
We built a Tesla coil
to take x-rays
of each other’s tongues or dew
perspires on the inside. Hard work,
being lovely at dawn, when the firing squad
fires up. No blindfold
for me, I’d watch lightning die
in my arms if I could stand that tall.
Then we fucked and x-rayed our panting
after. Where she saw a horse, I saw moonlight
braiding its hair. It’s possible
a crow is a piece of the night
crossing the day, a reconnaissance
by dream, a renaissance
of unity: she and I and every atom
in this together, whatever this is,
it’s lovely of her knees
to bring her eyes to me
to be as brown as I dare say dirt.
The kind I hold and think, I owe you
breath, that I could almost
put in a bowl and eat without bothering
to wait for the world
after rain that will grow from it. 
All my love poems are to her and everything and stupid
The big day
The missing
Once more into the breach of an unavoidably American argument
Practice makes imaginary backhands perfect