The Universe tripped over sunspots, again.
Bring your bees to breakfast. We are born over each time the coffee pot whistles.
You reach for your strings, and I, my words, and we test out late afternoon’s
empty window. You’ll have to forgive my shaky palms and I’ll forgive your noise – we’re too soon out of blue
pills to rediscover God’s crushes and cues.
Space becomes urgent in your empty t-shirt, I spill over the kitchen counter
where love with you, is walking through a dead Universe, over and over.