Whitman’s Hands

for Chris

There’s something about you that makes my heart hum
With what Whitman calls “life”
What Cummings calls puddle-wonder
and becoming “who you really are”

Something about your eyes, playing stars in your head
Or maybe your hands, rough and large
But it isn’t any Thing at all, really
My heart hums with you
Even if I try to ignore the hum, push it out
I can’t pass this stranger by, this knowing

This love
That does not burn, but rather builds up
That does not consume, but rather grows slow

Curls into the sun like peas, smells sweet like tomatoes
The poets were right: noticing is love
Anguish is love too, but much less full of hum

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

Poem for Seth

I’ve heard people say

writing about coffee

and cigarettes is not

romantic

definitely not

meaningful
.

still
.

all I can think about

is the cup right there

on the windowsill

with way too much milk

(I bought at Costco)
.

still
.

it makes me feel

better

knowing the Costco-milk-

coffee-tired-mug exists

so meaningless

that it gives me hope