Read sonnets to me in the coffee nights,
in the back alley doorways
where the creatures scurry,
where the drippings from tailpipes
beat measures we sing by the moon.
Dig holes in the earth and drop trinkets in,
and kick them back over and come find me,
and let me look but never tell me where they are.
Look at me with tired eyes and drink without a word,
take your vitamins from my blood and give me yours.
Sleep with impatient fever, if you will,
but tell me stories of where you’ve been
when you’ve come back all flustered.
Let me read sonnets to you in the dark,
and on overcast days that remind me of spring,
and follow when I wander off,
tired and sick of sonnets.
Point me straight to where your garden grows,
where your angels guard the gate,
and let me sit and gather grace
and quietly braid it into chains
and hang them from the trees.
And gather my garlands after me
and spin them into steel;
stand and be permission to stand,
a stalwart image that pardons me
for never having written any sonnets.