On our anniversary

There’s no sense in love.

Where it blooms; on whom it falls.

Viewed from the distance of

Years and familiarity

That keening, done in separation

That craven blood burst pulsing in temple and heart and groin

Is both ridiculous and yet

sorely missed

and is what began it all.

It’s the derangement of that first


Our past madness, sustains us.


Crepuscular; thickened of waist and thigh;

Stretched and marked by life.

Antiquely faded.

We two worn, odd, old shoes

polished and buffed into similarity.

Differences scuffed and worn

until we shine with the same light.