Love, or Something

The way, at last, a sloop goes sailorless and bobs at the dock, swathed in

          darkness,

the way waves swell and, swelling, slay themselves—

water, whatever you want, I want to want that.

A nickel’s in the till, then it’s not, it’s in a pocket, forgotten,

and the pocket’s in a laundry chute. A puddle’s in the parking lot,

          drying

to a ring of rust, asphalt buckling from something under it.

Conspiracy of earth and air in me, slip me your secret, I won’t fret,

you want me stoneground, I want to want that. I want

the fire to find me ready. Let it be not scorn or pluck

I summon as I’m swallowed—I’m sick of pluck. Let it be love,

or something like it, assuming love is to the purpose, assuming

I’m not being maudlin, merely human, to bring love up.