If I could write you a love song,
something I made from all that’s passed
and gone, something that speaks our language
now, that lies in the center
of a fingernail.  It’s the wanting

to be contained, to be held in
by some shape, to live
in the center of wherever the fuck we are
immobile and inside.

Something I could know the name of, and
call the name of, and by calling its name bring
into being. 

It’s too hard
to chase the seams as they’re ripping, even if only
to watch, like you were a farmer walking
the fences of the pasture. 

Something going before you like a tornado

over the horizon.  I want to write
the poem that will save our lives,
the song that will save our loves, something
mentioning the goodwill of God
and the depth of suffering,

mentioning like the cleaving of soul
and spirit.  A mention
gentle, sharper than any honed edge.