You are everywhere, and covered in snow
in a park where no one even sleeps anymore.
You are the various conversations
between black gloved, very important men.
You are the screen door flung wide
that everyone tries to latch shut.
Whenever I return to you, a fight breaks out,
or someone shoves an eggplant in a tuba.
Oh, my blastoff of lions, my symphony of planets!
I write your name in water spilled on the countertop
and cover myself in books. I lie down in their pages
and swim around in all those letters. You
are in the story that is very near the sea, see?
I am trying to take you home with me.