Love Poem By Tim Duffy

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Love Poem

The city cannot hold the body, the body is outside
the hill, the lights, the city, the stubborn body
dreams of its future without senescence
the lights dim in the distance. The body

is tired from dreaming. Undone again
the limbs too loose. The movie starts again.
I arrange the scene: the pages of poems,
the beans soaking by the windowsill

a violin on the radio. Some memories of labor,
an ache, though these are not arranged. The bridge
is full of lights, the sky goes on until the power lines
blend into the road. The broken shutters

shed paint, peeling off on porches of triple deckers,
all palette blended, not unlike the evening
you slept on the floor, nude feet brushing
against the hardwood promises. You woke

in darkness, washed what needed washing
took notes, swallowed anxious thoughts,
and flew into the air. It felt good
and wasn’t worth it. The sky is the only kiss

you need. The only one remembered.
The grass is a memory. The moon sets by the Jesuit
graveyard. An imagined Nightingale sings to you,
drowned out by some distant honking, a shudder.

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Tim Duffy is a poet, teacher, and scholar working in Connecticut. His work has recently appeared in or will appear shortly in Cotton Xenomorph, Rabid Oak, The Hawai'i Review, Entropy, Occulum, Moonchild Mag, and the Longleaf Review. He is the founder and EIC of 8 Poems. 

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