I've put myself in ridiculous positions for love.

All this blazing in compression, random
snippets from the calendar: my whole life
in a minute & an echoing of days.  I'm dozing
or I'm dreaming & happy to be so evening,

so out of it, so dusk.  Listen to the rain coax
chronology from the sky.  Airplanes in the night
& their hollow metal wingings; there's a touchdown
in the dark maybe an hour ago.  Already & again.

Roaming through this tragedy, my hemisphere of grief.
Meaning I've bent over backwards for a kiss before.
I've put myself in ridiculous positions for love.
It's frightening, all this romance, & the drinking

helps forget it.  Now it's later.  The story we're telling
picks up before it started.  There are other cities
to be razed or fumbled among, there's a glitz that turns
to bloodlust under the right kind of moon.

My desire is to pluck the petals off all the beauty things
& not just flowers.  To hold one bit of sweetness
in the fingers of your hand.  To get out of bed
when you're sick.  To think of words & think of words

& think of words again.  More words & better words.
I'm reading again the Hours to figure out the symphony.
To unplug the ears & cross the uncrossed wires.
This is something blowing up.  This is patience.

[Nate Pritts, 'Autobiographical', from Sweet Nothing: Poems]