the joy of the way
the pitter patter rain
drops spell out your
name on the window pane
is something i have
never quite been able to
muster up in words

the fire in the back
and forth of lines
alighting on your tongue
as if (fledglings) you
could swallow them
but they just up and fly

the slowness in the taste
of bitter down to socks
when the room between
your toes is big
enough to pin your happiness
and your eyes can't see
past your nose
for the fog

the zinger at the close
that falls flat in desiring
though stretched up
to the height of
all its strength