muddy my forevers,
wet river footprints
on the kitchen floor

of the house we’ll never buy.
we argue
over the absolute value

of nothing, the hollows
it leaves under your eyes
when we open the front

door and the world
comes in with the rain.
someone asked me once

why i write
poetry, and i didn’t have
a ready answer,

but after
so much of argument, i
think it’s to believe,

still, in
love, in all its
hot swollen

uncomfortable
nothings that creep
like poison

just under the skin,
its falling headfirst
over and  over and

over, somer-
saults into river shadow,
into, again, nothing,

the absolute value of which
is still up
for discussion.