Capacity to Recover

I wrote this for a new kind of love.

Two o' clock in the

morning. You were once again

lost. (Literally.)



Never did I claim

to be your compass. Patti

Smith gushes from the



car's speakers. You are

my magnetic north.

My needle pivots.



Found on a rural

Michigan road. We spoke

as low wattage street



lights accented that

part of your neck, which muffled

my screams as you came



and I went. Then you

mentioned the sun, that we're a

parhelic circle.



"We're always on each

other's horizon." But

I know a bit of



astronomy: to 

catalog us, as if our 

limits don't show.