There is a kind of love called amnesia
which checks the insurance and doesn’t
remember the migrations of birds,
which registers forgetting
like the brains of chimps
donated to science, which stores
forgiving and knows when to free
the flame from long-ago rooms.
This kind of love offers a truce
that will burst the bubble
as honest as it hurts hitting
the funny bone. But you deserve
peace in the east and west,
a Eucharist beyond the government’s
calamity loans. You deserve it,
euphoria that glows only for you
every time sunshine goose-steps
across your bedroom floor.
And this kind of love can re-invent
you and me, like old devices
in the attic in this time of pandemic.
You know I adore the parts
of the house where closed doors
allow distancing. This is
when logic follows the law.
But I miss you and there’s no more
logic to which I’m committed.
I’ll just dig a tunnel from my window
to yours. This architecture of ours!