Literal
8.20.06

I have a thing for you, a gift hand chosen.
You’d much prefer it was a lamp, or paperweight,
or bottle of expensive wine.

Something to be seen, touched, protected, real.
Something that would insist upon a thank you note,
half-dotted “i”s and semicircle “o”s scribbled
on gauzy paper, distant words.

This is nothing like those, that fade, ebb,
swerve, dive, surge, wander,
flee to time’s wastelands.

Mine is a thing of abstraction, distraction,
cemented in a fluttering mind.

It pirouettes past you in a high-strung ballet,
one pointed foot hoping to trip a clue.

I have a thing for you.