he has a magnolia smile, he does.
In the sense that we are becoming
something about as furiously unexpected,
oh, please, the sunburst quirking at your mouth
and as all of the afternoon glories of this place,
you scare me about this badly.
Breathe gentle and warm unto the other,
you move here,to me,leave exquisite fingerprints
in my hair:you need little and make our world littler
in the eyes of that which cannot change.
Do not think that I have not tried;
for there is little that I would not do
to make you a simple and ordinary boy
and less that I could do to make you mine.
For a reason, there is no distance left
to run. I open towards the sun for you.
You speak soft words of a talk that absolutely
keeps me there,by you,and for as long as
you keep on smiling down at my shy eyes, there is
nothing left in me that is fully,madly so scared
that I might belove,for you,all over again.
It was awful, magnolias after the third day,
when you have merely begun to find morethan
in this denial of brown-sugared petals & edges,
when you have merely begun to allow my quiet
of a crying that I could merely allow my tears
and, oh, brave, it was so awful to smile at you,
upwards and sadly, for there is nothing left
to hold sacred in these shoeboxes of a love
that has become fallen too far and is now yours.
And there is nothing that I can do to
make the mad beauty of this any less so.
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