O Elegant Giant
These difficult matters of grace and scale:
The way music, our savior, is the marriage of math and antisocial behavior.
Like this woman with a bucket in the morning gathering gorgeous oxymora on the shore…
And my wildly troubled love for you, which labored gently in the garden all through June, then tore the flowers up with its fists in July.
Which set a place for you next to mine—the fork beside the spoon beside the knife (the linen napkin, and the centerpiece: a blue beheaded blossom floating
in a bowl)—and even the red weight of my best efforts poured into your glass as a dark wine before I tossed the table onto its side.
Just another perfect night. Beyond destruction, and utterly unlikely, how someone might have managed, blindly, to stumble on such a love in the middle of her life.
O elegant giant.
While, outside, the woods are silent.
And, overhead, not a single intelligent star in the sky.