I’d call you starling
before darling, but if it’s love
baby; you more you more.
And if we are sprung,
let’s be. It’s the twelfth Wed-
nesday of the year and we
are as inventive as a choked
blue sky. It’s time to be
unmeasured. The love-
less lady on the corner says
our hands are worth this
hushing. Aerodynamically
speaking, there is no flight.
Husband and wife, we are
scuttling things, wishing
for grounds and nouns; all
and sundry. For someone to X
in and X out the darkness.
Poor little elegy. Right now
we can only see your shimmer
and light is just the damndest.
There is no synonym for marriage
but the hollowed out verb.
However dumbly, we are
merry with it. Always somebody to love
somebody: tweedle-sweet
and tweedle-sweat.