Love Prayer

I love the deer and the desert.
I love the first part of Medea, the sea.
I love calling a poem “the porpoise”.
I love eating good salad, both idea and activity, and thinking about it as in I’m describing to someone this salad.
I love the perfect shape, parallelogram,
because it is the only true shape that swivels.
I love porch swings.
I love thinking like my mind is the voice in The Royal Tennanbaums.
I love Misty.
I love coming to love my apartment, throw-away bathroom wipes, white-washing, bedside work areas, this conservative knitted hoodie my mother bought me, etc.
I love putting forward questions I have not considered answering for myself.
I love my grandma’s blue fan.
I love my new seashell flowers.
I love picking out colors.
Pettia. Pece. Puff Piece.
I love Eva Hesse’s studies.
I love built-in book shelves.
I love rooms opening out into balconies, gardens, poolsides, and porches.
I love looking at eggs.
I love that part where it is just the hand.
I love certain kinds of accents, creases, pushing open the door of the Menil, hydrolics.
I love blue doors on white houses.
I love thread.
I love the first moments of consciousness in the morning, before everything, I am so happy.
I love the idea that I am a klutz.
I love the way Tenney wrote IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU CAN GET AN MFA.
I love being in the car when it’s raining.
I love missing the point for a time, then getting it in a rush of understanding.
I love my boyfriend.
I love living next door to Gail and Francis, across the street from Bonnie, and a few blocks away from Jimmy.
I love Ronald Johnson’s relationship to walking around.
I love thinking of the greenhouses at night, and how they inside me now like a lozenge.
I love Sufjan Steven’s Seven Swans and Willie Nelson, Emmilou Harris and Gillian Welch.
I love very fragile books.

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