Size / / /
Hardly has the wax seal dried
on this common twilight in late September
when I long for fingertips
I've never felt, reassurance
of starlings migrating over Wal-Mart,
calligraphy of the inexplicable
silence heard ever since I could talk
and asked what it was I saw,
just there on reality's platinum fringe.
No matter that men called it foolish,
that women smirked behind fans
and pronounced it sweet
for grown boys to be so lovesick,
this full of ache for what has no name,
lacking both mass and magic
but what, under a microscope,
under the dirty thumbnail of God,
could unstop all the laws of the universe.