I can be a transient lover to you.
Stability, security, override what you feel.
Eventually my act gets tired.
Songs embellished in your name,
I don’t know what’s real.
Forgiveness is.
I owe myself a few more mulligans.
Nothing rhymes with mulligan.
Except restarting.
Not really.

I don’t blame you for wanting out.
Happiness is a dollar sign, no time
for silly thoughts, these words of mine.
McCartney was right all along.
No amount of prose can replace structure,
fidelity, coarse in the hourglass.
Rubbing you, those last sloppy moments in bed.
Sand stuck in your bathing suit.
“Fuck me” still hanging in the air over my head.
It felt so dirty to be with you.
Transient love spent.
My well-meaning “goodbye” sent.

I miss you, Patrick Swayze

When the neighbors writhe in simile,
vibrations make way through dry wall, tender lit on the old plains-
Native Americans thought you sounded strange too
Settler backwash, swilled on sacred land, and the Indians creeping on hillcrests disregarded those fires

But I can hear you make love,
and I hope that isn’t replacing lust- complacency for rigor, so routine..

How do you know he loves you?

Suction me into fetal pose,
sound bleeding through the walls;
lull me to sleep.