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.