A little house in the woods
and a small boyfriend in town.
(There is more than meets the eye
to the perfect combination.)

I thank you vastly for this long good day.
May my other days be good in other ways.

poem for e.e.cummings

e.e.cummings man you got it going,your
voice is many fingertouches
without poking,it
moves not breaking anything(like
spring or a cat)strokes
immensely in line a star,
an eye awake,a breast

e.e.cummings you be soft,thick
with yes and many hands unfold and close,with
(on them lamps)nightstands you
have seen may & sun two world wars new york

i dreamed you e.e.cummings in a moon-balloon descending,
said“feeling is first to pay any attention
to the syntax of things,
love
is more thicker than forget,
makes the little thickness of the coin”

e.e.cummings i never looked up
your names i don’t think
you would mind

poem after taking metronidazole

I’m sorry that you have to go, giardia lamblia.
I hope you don’t mind dying so much.
that’s gotta be an advantage of being
microbia.

if you like him only when you’re feeling weak
and you dream of better men when you’re asleep,
then perhaps the strongest one in you
wants to tell your heart that you can do
without all these warm sleepy weekends, neverending hugs,
neverending yes and nightly wishing good-night.

if you’re feeling tired in a restless way
and you have the same sensation every day,
don’t marry him.
nobody wants you to do it.
he doesn’t want it either and
if he says so, he is merely deluded.
what spark of secret joy
would shine in such unsecret disguise?
which hero in your army
would approve of your refusing to get wounded?

if you think true life is in a different city
and you see no truth in marrying out of pity,
don’t marry him.
there are better reasons
you may not even know.
there may be more comfort on the streets
than in a sorry place to rest your feet.

to you, heartfelt resolutions
that never found way to the heart.
you, that got caught and starved
in the streets of a weekday,
or lost around a corner
which you did not turn.
and yet under the sun you departed,
and gates were opened
(specifically for you)
and heart’s stony tower was in sight.

well, you were seeing right

you know that it's not worth one minute of your scratching
and turning at night.

you know it will not turn as you revolve in bed
(no turning makes you look away from it),
it won't get scratched when it itches.

it ain’t worth one cigarette you smoke,
one bite of your fingernails
or the chance of getting an ulcer.

and in spite of knowing it,
scratching and
turning and
smoking
is what
you
do.

“if only I had something to hold”, you say,
but you really wish you would let go.