i’ve been thinking—

you know those statues

outside football stadiums,

the ones of our fragile gods.

a silent distillation of their

improbable, unfailing hope.

the ones who would find

the divine in our honest

rituals; now casting the

shape of a sacrament

in the skies of the places

that they’d ply their trade.

well I was thinking—

i should commission

one of you, everywhere

that we’d go together

and on my heart’s

broadest side,

where everyone agrees

you did your finest work.

how unromantic, they all said

to fall in love so slowly:

a deprivation, to not be crushed

by the sudden weight of

inevitability.

the sheer inefficiency to be

without the slick anecdote for

a stranger, against the countertop.

but how can we care for

efficiency

when our repetitions are prayers

that, when missed, leave an

emptiness in the air–

like a car engine, idling

then cut in the driveway.

and how can i describe

the perpetual thrill of

pulling at each gossamer

thread, each fine layer

we hide behind, to find

your capacity for shared

affection, unbounded still.

to fall so slowly, you never

stop.