I saw a man playing an harmonica today
downtown on the streetcorner

I saw the moon playing your harmonica today
downtown on my heartcorner

I saw my moon playing your heartmonica today
on the corner of your soul.

I saw your moonica hearting
on the corner of could.

leaving the cheese
here is almost
as cruel as not
loving me

you just shattered
my mind-comet

…asteroids are no longer
just chunks of stone
they are glistening
and twinkling, alive
and sometimes they blow up
over Russia with the force of 20 atomic bombs

Life is such
a beautiful sometimes

I may or may not have found this poem
in more or less the same way I found you:
lying in grass, under bright stars,
meandering along rivers of conversation across
miles across minutes, vibrating
in harmony
alongside me, swelling in cadences,
bundled in creeds,
folded in sunsets, tucked in the peculiar
warmth of darkness,
calmly suspended like a streetlight,
crystallized
like snowflake on eyelash or a truth
discovered only in dreaming.

A birth is perhaps not such a miraculous thing
until
you hear the child scream and you swear
it’s a song the world’s been missing.

I did find something
in my heart this morning—it felt
like you (stubborn like
truth and fragile
like vellum) and it sounded like
a poem (measured&boundless), which,
as it turns out,
are not altogether different things.

Not all births are poems and not
all lives are songs
that sing me sweetly
to rest.

What I mean, really, is to say
happy birthday,
which really means something more like:

I found you and you
found me, and there’s no telling
which is the greater miracle.

I hope your family becomes a beautiful
constellation or flowergalaxy

if it has to happen

Bees that enter the house almost
immediately regret it.
This is evidenced by their frenzied
buzz-buzzing
Against the win-window.

stop
letting
your
heart
break
at the drop
of a had
*hat

at this rate there’ll be nothing left

One time
I cried at summer camp
when the other boys pulled the songs
off a moth.