Patience
I think of you the poet
at a party. They think
you seem indistinguishable
from any other girl.
You, mistrustful poet.
I know.
Love's false prophets
smear the poet
to flatter you and everygirl.
Love, trust
that verse becomes us.
We, infinite as
poets' memory sprawling shadows
'round us both in couplets,
brush the edge of fate
or your awkward foot or mine.
You, uneasy poet,
permanent as your
hair brushed aside
just now.
You, stand still,
strong. You: monument to all I love.
You, fatalist,
for good reason
darkness surrounds a star.
