Maybe love will call you by your name
if you sit a little longer eating olives and alone
read a book that makes you feel things
and drink fermented tea
and rather than moving forward or
moving backward, simply levitate,
like an enchanted rug, this method is hallowed,
it has been tried.
Or in lieu of more complex plans, drive
until nearly gasless.
Think of the present rather than the past
and of how it feels,
sitting next to you in the car.
Lovingly you may find that nothing is lacking.
(I always want something different
than what I end up getting, and find that it is fine.)
Maybe I expect
that when love calls me by my name,
it will look and sound differently than it does
upon appearance- looks
like sunlight on a bedroom, sounds
like barely anything at all.
What is most stunning upon introduction
is a lack of love.
It always makes sounds,
even says things,
always looks like something or someone.
There is a little trapdoor in my closet
lined with tea-rose wallpaper.
I wonder what it will hold and realize
I have no secrets.