stare at the clouds until
your neck hurts and then nudge the earth
with the toe of your shoe
and do not step on bugs that wriggle
across the pavement — they are epic heroes.

when the air is wine go into it
fully, soul-skinny-dipping
and feel corpuscles dancing.

when muscari appear in the crooks of roots
and mushrooms bubble out from loam
nod to them but do not stop — they are private.

speak nothing but “I love you”
or “that is not true” and
side-step committee meetings
and garage sales.

sit up late; but only when
the talk of the night
the words of the night
spin you both into one silver thread
that never unravels.

and when you see a poem:
there will be no letters;
only the fire and the force.