Your Tenacious Buns
Sing to me, muse!
you said to me last night
when we debated the origin of the cosmos
and I told you that indeed: love is so fragile;
that linguistics alone couldn’t stand you up,
you and your tenacious buns,
your pineapple breath on Saturday nights,
on nights when the sounds of your guitar
strings dance on my eardrums,
like an elephant on a tightrope in an arboretum.
You and your twin lungs, screaming out my name
under stars and on wooden chairs by candlelight.
Love, I said, makes life askew and also,
I said, makes everything more certain
but not certain at all.
