“All the particles in the world
Are in love and looking for lovers...” – Rumi

Poetry is the last refuge of the
can’t-be-said, the can’t-be done,

so here I am, at midnight, not-saying
I want you, not-puckering my lips at

at each sound that could be but is not-
you: pelican wing in water, poplar branch

pawing at the window to touch its tear
-shaped leaves to my cheek. A tipsy wind

carries your voice to the brink of my ear
and it’s almost enough: is not everything,

even sound, physical? Atoms move through
air, synapses fire, hearts beat a little harder

despite, or because of, the knowledge that
by dawn’s sober light we’ll stroll the moist

grass, alone, always alone, beneath a poplar
that won’t meet our eyes, a faint moon that

winks as if she’s in on the secret, as if there
were secrets where love is concerned.