Love Calls Us

The soul descends once more in bitter love… —Richard Wilbur The eyes open to the cries of police. Skirting sleep, the soul industrial as laundry— realities like bad checks, burning like new sex. Dinner is the better half of someone’s lunch. Someone’s playing a guessing game: Psychosis or Handsfree. Local fame. Praying to a calf, or debt ceiling, keeps us grounded. You can take the kid out the food court, but child support won’t upgrade from buy to buy— outbid, I am my financial aide. Astounded, we wake and take. Let every boy Tolstoy with disease have a chance. Liabilities, let’s dance. We’re clean— or rather, not unclean— doxycycline our balance sheet. Our spirits, neat.