TO THE MAN I LET GET ON A RED TWO-SEATER AND PEDAL OFF WITHOUT ME

Who was it that said

less . . . .

let’s communicate less?

Ignore her!

Who was it that said

trash the love letters?

Did you, that time, listen?

Never mind, my sweet,

just never trash the love,

for if you do, I cannot live.

She, who said less, was being rational.

She was taking caution in

out of the wind

and giving it an ice cold beverage.

Nothing about loving you

is ice, or cold.

Well, maybe your feet.

Mine, too.

If you think I don’t love you,

you’re wrong

about that, buster.

What are you?

A lunatic?

I will love you forever.

APPLE PLURALITY

It’s a black-and-white sequence

of cost-benefit calculations

in which I take up space —

height, width, depth,

and a dimension I can’t see.

I wish to be saved by numbers,

but count on dialogue and gesture

to perform my tricks and songs.

In the pentimento of perforated switchbacks

I carry things that divide time and words.

I traveled here to report that

between temptation and nightmare

the line is thin.

I offer this advice—

don’t privilege a straight line

over weaving side-to-side.

The apple hits the ground regardless.