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.