In My Best Swooning Moments

I thank you for the old man
remembering to wear his shoes
shaken open to liturgy

I take to heart the hard
lessons of hospitality
the blunt flowering of will

and wait to clean up
until the meal is complete

I feel my luck
in the limber backhoe
sweeping between
heavy August gardens

where you pulled me away
from a life shrinking
before the mirror

When I chortle through
the hangover, cheer the resistant
memory, the chipped plate

purse before the curing
comeback or I regard

with tenderness uninvited
influences ribbing
my disposition

the conspiratorial spider
at my service

And when I, creature of event,
wake suddenly under

a glass of moon
framing the unmade bed