except for faint greasy smears from late night conversations

residual ashes of cigarettes, circled marks of coffee cups

we played at weary knowledge then

told stories we had not yet lived

considered ourselves futile actors in some imaginary play

one by one we all left the kitchen

the door hanging half ajar

seats pushed away from the table

as we went out into the years

and all we didn’t know

translucent in the bright noon sun

warm from the summer-baked sand

containing stories pulled up by the waves

tumbled upon the shore

hold it up so that they flow out

to be carried by the gulf salt wind

there to rest on the fanned palmettos

and the serrated dagger leaves

so beautiful with wonder

sharp enough to make you bleed

how many words for fear do you know

how many for love

I have called fear by a personal name

I have seen its face

likewise I encounter love

far more often in embodied form

I cannot number its labels

do not ask me terms for fear

the world will furnish these enough

gladly will I provide for love

begin with this

you