—

Geometrical regularity and a line

full of nudes and an alphabet we

could dance to and come together

oh why don’t you come on one

two three one two three. It’s rhythmic,

the way we are, serifed sans serif

darlings in a row. When you took me

to Georgia we spun in circles, we

learned to curl to the right and be

soundless beneath the orange tree.

Sometimes I see a lover sidling up

to another and I think that is us

in the future, some sweet th sound

or a sassy ch. Can’t things be just

what we want them to be and can it be

our secret? Imagine the type of face

I make when in all caps you say

meet me in the barn and I do

and we become futura, didot,

comic sans the comic all before

dusk. In Tahoma, we are stoic.

We shield the sun with dairy cows

and wear burlap sacks. In Gothic,

we walk the via dolorosa. We are

in ruins. When I whisper to you,

always it is small and then we are

back in regular times and New York

is lovely in the fall. Now we are quiet.

We try and sleep in lowercase but the bed,

it underlines us. Is it too bold to say

you are the smallish history I’ve always

wanted? That between you and me

there is not enough space for a dormouse,

an ampersand, the letter V? Darling,

what italics do to letters, you do to me.