When the sun rises, first
where you are,
then an hour later
outside my apartment window,

we can see the flames
of a billion candles
inside each moment
if we resist the urge

to swipe our fingers
through the tips. Just for kicks
the way we did
when we were too young

to believe in death.
I am the governess

of my feelings. You, yours.
A bigger fire begins
to burn through the day
into night. Some liar’s pit

on a hill behind a school.
We could be tossing in
all kinds of combustibles.
My governess lets me

stay out all night now,
no questions asked.

It all hinges
on that first kiss—
the one that already happened,
plotted out a billion years ago.

Not one locked gate,
milk chute for crawling through,
car ignition. Not
a single regret.

Hey, summer solstice,
almost winter solstice here.
We call across an overlapping ribbon
to one another. No echo. No stanza.
No station necessary
in this endless ride. Everything
so perfectly compacted into
longest day shortest night longest night shortest day
stretching every fiber, nerve, strand.
Here we are two specks of gold
glitter stuck to a loop. A pattern
on an ancient sea turtle’s shell. Left earlobe
of a giant with wine-flavored tattoos.
We can’t take our eyes off the horizon
till the inner ear balances. Till vertigo
becomes the rippled gown of Veritas.
We are so broken into imperfect shards
of stained glass, so beyond trick photography
in this crazy 8 ball shaken down world.

I have hidden
my big dripping heart
in a secret place. It hangs
from a rack
out of reach.

I believe no one—
not even you—
knows where. I am
so wrong. You’ve passed
by the site

so many times
over decades and degrees.

Never thought to look
till now. It was so easy
for you to find.

Affixed to that thing

all this time.
To what? Where? There.
A number. A symbol.
A geography without coordinates,
my love.