Medicine
After they’ve stolen the eggs from the chicken yard,
when the lottery ticket you thought you won
turned out to be a parking ticket, on a day
you could have slept through but didn’t,
somewhere at the bottom of a stack of bills,
like a smiley face left inside a lunch box,
a card with your name on it and inside the card,
all the love you could imagine,
more love than once split you open at the sides
from too much laughter
more than all the gold of sunlight just before dusk when
desire lays down its knitting,
love that blurs the space between us, love
so big you cannot see where it begins, or ends—
and sometimes, frankly, you forget its there,
atmospheric love, songs to which you know every word
and sometimes forget you are singing.