The Architecture of a Love Poem

Love's balustrade, love's balcony a few iron words that can be seen anywhere still in grocery lists, in laundry hung between two objects, an e-mail, in an apology, in a thought about the weather these rusty words, these rusting gates before a breath, Standing in the cold morning on a cold blue stairs, with a curlicue of coffee you look at the word Love written on the side of the Pharmacy in cherry-vanilla flavored cursive because this is where a love poem once stood, what I am saying right now is secretly built over a love poem, the fossils of a cupola, pink buildings with red hyphens and dashes and three red dots, You, second person pink with shutters you could open with a fingernail like in an advent calendar to see sticker scenes of apartments inside: a radiator, a bare arm, two cups by themselves on a table The mind of the attic still persists up there meditative water and the chairs talking quietly to one another It's now pink rubble, rhyming bricks, and an illicit balcony the heart had such a fancy elevator that it started to look like a bird cage and once in a lemon-scented fog near springtime-fresh trees, I heard two people say, "Yellow kiss-shaped flowers, telephone flowers, are falling from my mouth now" Now, it's a set of blue and white checkered apartment buildings math problems that are eight stories high a long division jutting as pollution into the sky laundry, cooking spills, gasoline shirts commas, theories or arguments of boyfriends & girlfriends boyfriends & boyfriends, girlfriends & girlfriends, all hanging out of the window that you opened.