Science—

beyond pheromones, hormones, aesthetics of bone,

every time I make love for love’s sake alone,

I betray you.

Love at Thirty-Two Degrees, Katherine Larson

It has already been one week, and I'm still so everlasting tired; I think this sleep will reach my bones one day and melt them straight out of my body. My brain and metaphorical heart are out of sync. And yet my feet keep moving, even when they should stay put. Even when they ache to be rested, but there's no rest for the weary, and there are many miles to go. Chin up, head up, walk tall, keep moving; all good advice in theory.

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

The Rain, Robert Creely

The Sun woke me this morning loud

and clear, saying “Hey! I've been

trying to wake you up for fifteen

minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are

only the second poet I’ve ever chosen

to speak to personally

so why

aren’t you more attentive? If I could

burn you through the window I would

to wake you up. I can't hang around

here all day.”

“Sorry, Sun, I stayed

up late last night talking to Hal.”

“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was

a lot more prompt” the Sun said

petulantly. “Most people are up

already waiting to see if I’m going

to put in an appearance.”

Frank O'Hara
A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island

last night my mother was a child, in my dream, surrounded by yellow roses and riding an enormous horse. this is as close as i can get to that feeling again.
next i may have to tackle the anxious dream i have about oceans and overpasses.

You say you want to feel
the words.

You just want to live in Boston
with the painter Martha McCollough.

Sure, I can imagine the thought
of an easel, the idea
of thick paint.

But I want you to explain it simply, clinically.

Because now that I've thought about it, what
doesn't begin with love and death and end
in lonliness?