Harmony, a love poem
Dear harmony,
I am looking at you,
right now. Don't worry.
When you've finished reading, cloud watch a minute,
let your walls flatten into fields, forget the color blue,
and you will see me, too. I have combed my arm hair
out into wings with wishing and set my feet onto airplanes
like the stepstools they are to vacation,
in space.
Don't worry, on Sunday, I was the dissonant one.
My last words to you would be full of flowers.
If this letter is the last time you hold me,
imagine my hands around yours in the snow,
let your walls flatten into fields, forget the color blue,
and you will see me, too. I have combed my arm hair
out into wings with wishing and set my feet onto airplanes
like the stepstools they are to vacation,
in space.
Don't worry, on Sunday, I was the dissonant one.
My last words to you would be full of flowers.
If this letter is the last time you hold me,
imagine my hands around yours in the snow,
It is the only thing I could not have done, and
cannot do until my return.
The first reason I have left earth
is to test the spacial limits of eye contact.
Record the number of shooting stars between now
and when you see me next. They are
prayers mirrored on earth's eyelid.
Record the number of shooting stars between now
and when you see me next. They are
prayers mirrored on earth's eyelid.
The second is to try out the gills I've grown
chasing what everyone says is nothing.
Pray they're working. Thirdly,
the last I can think of-ly,
to see how much missing it takes to pull a body
closer than orbit. Sometimes, I admit, you look like
a manila envelope. In grade school, the word manila
by itself, was enough to make me think of retirement
homes - not the inside souls, but the place where
certainty's only friends are sterilization and death;
it's the skin color we know by comparison doesn't exist or
only has hands for privilege. To the eyes,
chasing what everyone says is nothing.
Pray they're working. Thirdly,
the last I can think of-ly,
to see how much missing it takes to pull a body
closer than orbit. Sometimes, I admit, you look like
a manila envelope. In grade school, the word manila
by itself, was enough to make me think of retirement
homes - not the inside souls, but the place where
certainty's only friends are sterilization and death;
it's the skin color we know by comparison doesn't exist or
only has hands for privilege. To the eyes,
you look like all I know,
which is why I even mentioned retirement,
but I forget that envelopes are the perfect
mistakable-for-nothing-at-all width to hold heaven poems.
I have gone in search of these. Of the beauty
I can't see with well fed eyes.
Of remembrance.
Of remembrance.
Proper perspective.
I think the planets have always had it right,
keeping their admirers at enough distance to wear want
like an appointment. Where I'm going, there's nothing
I think the planets have always had it right,
keeping their admirers at enough distance to wear want
like an appointment. Where I'm going, there's nothing
to breathe but homesickness. Pray
my lungs grow heavy enough
to drop me back to earth before my body loses hope.
my lungs grow heavy enough
to drop me back to earth before my body loses hope.
In a Glossary of Star-Strucking, orbit is a state of despair.
I guess the planets had it wrong.
They will never know the crash of being loved.
They will never know the sound of themselves
played back through a dusty speaker
pushed and pulled
by forces he did not set in motion.
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