it starts with one word
and then I find myself adding
all the accoutrements

����to sculpt a space
��������where you might appear

to chorizo, I scramble in some eggs
over a can of sterno
c�mon, john, look! my swiss army knife
has a spork and a toothpick!

����the once-empty sleeping bag
��������rises and falls with your snores

yellow needs more definition �
you aren�t the type to materialize
saint-like in a solar flare,
no special glasses needed
or pinholes to peep through

but rub it to butter � yes!
the burnished blonde wood
of a vintage Guild

����and your voice curls
��������in the nest of my belly

manias � addictions, obsessions
I've the pen, the perfect nib,
the blackest of India inks
with which to write yours down

on a square of paper
that I fold upon itself nine times
����(no more creases possible
in such a shape)
to slip beneath my mattress

����where you'll leave your mark,
��������a purple bruise on my spine

invocation � incense burned
in a waning moon, my lips around
that first embryonic word �
always

����������������one of yours