Formulas, many

In every which way

but yous,

or so I thought and so

I once ought and so

I fool-

likes sought and

choose,

and doubt, and then

found myself at last

and then unable 

and then you 

all-

edged disable,

and the label I always

resisted for as long as

it was so untrue,

and unclued,

and mebbe lewd,

and all I now want are 

your kisses under

missed and owed

moments of

lost pleas-

ires, and maybe that’s

Eire, but then

I am rounded and

hung from Irish

hammock, as

lost and as happy

as any journeyman ever 

was: whiled and 

striped with the 

yellow and red of 

future perfect-

ion, even

where 

imperfectly lived.

And I do so love the 

idea you will always

know more about

me than I do

about you: why and what and

which, and a how

happiness this 

allows me, and

is: the joy 

of exploring 

not just your body of

evidence, 

out clear 

and sincere

as you

hear, but your

most intimate wholes, and 

a holed lot of 

other stoles I might 

tick and nick 

and snuck and 

tuck

in, like white-

sheeted bed of

glorious night.

And although it’s 

not true, and

although the you I 

configured figures no

where in your

reality at all, still I can 

dream about what

might have been,

because lives are

built, survived and

ultimately thrived on the

stuff of wishes and

tishes and tushes and

rushes and

the glorious big tike 

your mikes have

made of you.

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