I write my little song. And you call it
Guitar noodle. You write without you here.
And I call it the poem with you here in it.
We have entered each other’s atmosphere
In isolation, the way a bee knows
The deep shadows in the folds of a flower
But doesn’t know what a bouquet is, those
Rows of spectrumed tulips in Holland are
Work to it, bees in empty thought noodling
Over lavender and ocher and quince,
A thing, not something, but a true thing,
Like the difference between crisis and Chris,
The difference between time and a Timex,
The difference between a bed and a desk.