For you,
And I know you hate poems,
Oh yes I do
But today I'm writing poems
Maybe when it's done
You'll find you might have liked this one?

Love I love the hole in my heart that brought me here.
Love I love the cold.
Love I love the aching that becomes every night,
I love your island.

Love, love must be blind
Must be deaf,
Must have an I.Q. of four
An arm growing where its brain should be
I know I love your island.

I love the ferry bow where the winds pass ferocious
The Dreamland that rises in opaque foggy nights,
The furrows in the owl's field.
I love the islands imprinted in the stream of perfectly navigable waters
And the rain.

Love, I love the fierce wind protecting
The Captain plying the shoreline approaching
A stone’s throw
On a beach where magic surfed ashore
And will again Heisenberg-style
On feet numbed senseless with cold,
Fled and hiding in your island forest thick with trilliums.

I love the emptiness no one cares,
Born running the way Springsteen sung,
When you were the untouched paper under the pen,
When Bruce A.K.A. "Dad" and She A.K.A. "Mom"
Slept on board A.K.A. "bed" over Kid A.K.A. "You"
Hay rolling beneath the vast blue unknowing storms to be.
Before I loved the forest where your trilliums grow,
Where Gabriel walked wingless down here below.
Damned and godless.

But I'm obeying,
See, I'm swimming,
Even though old men in town were saying there's no way of winning
They pray in Buddhist Chinese dropping dominos under,
Those boring blue skies that gave way to frightening
Lightning and thunder,
Past remembered is ever being,
Christ, who do they think they're kidding?
No clock can stop an owl's flight.

Can you believe that when the checkbook balances,
The muse will rise and in Laura Love's voice
Will sing that I lost my way in the perfectly navigable waters,
Beside your island?
And the driftwood from which they built the house.

I love those weathered gray boards,
I love the shelter that kept you whole,
I love that people lived and died there,
And the ghosts we were and will become
And life simply is and no one knows,
Or sees my footprint filling with rain
In the mud between the hummocks beside the tree branch
That seems like the trunk of an elephant the children once rode,
In dreams no one will believe,
We two ghosts were standing there.

Because in my mind my love is a blind neurosurgeon,
A deaf composer,
An astronaut with a glass eye and claustrophobia,
An armless handshake specialist,
A fish drowning in a glass bowl at the carnival,
A serial killer wannabe pulling the wings off butterflies,
Under a glass magnifying,
A solar flare no one believes in.

I love your tragic desolation.

And it is vicious, merciless, and unkind.
How else could that have happened?

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