What does the body know except what it wants.
Right now, it wants to lay in the lopsided square of sun
that lands on the old gray rug.
Instead I curl into the corner of the couch
and scribble, a minion to the mind and its lawyers,
a scribe for the endless drive to know.
How many more words do we need for love?
Let it be what we do, not some sequence of phonemes,
not some magnet we rearrange on the metal cabinet’s side.
Above the desk, the Britannica volumes do not follow
their order, the alphabet breaks after H,
and I force myself not to reshelf the dark spines.
I tell my mind: accept what is. I tell mind:
kiss the lips of disorder. I tell my mind:
the body would steal for love.
Meanwhile the body resists the printer’s hum,
the aquarium’s gurgle, the drone of fluorescent lights,
and looks at the sun puddle there on the carpet
and says to the mind, I mean now. And the sun,
though it cannot speak, fills in the skin’s hollow
and spoons generous warmth into the limbs, into the belly,
into this meantime where the lover is not.