To love her this way is to love all her days of rainstorms.
He worries that his love for her

is rude, that she will reconsider and decide
she is tired of him wrapping her up in his flannel,
holding her like a keepsake when she dies little deaths,
waiting for her, a patient wife, each night until
she returns ripe from the battlefield.

He bathes her, speaks with a hushed tongue,
kisses her brushstrokes until she is hard for him

and they begin again window painting,
sailing towards that latent landscape, backpacking
in Patagonia with a love so big she grew sore
from him but he always looks for hints:
you must cherish more than you can ever seek to spend.

He carries her outside, places her so very carefully
among the vines. This time he says it loudly,

you were never mine, but to you my lightning strike
I linger, my hunger, my beautiful blood singer, I think…

He thinks she holds him in solitary confinement in her mind.
To love her this way is to love all of her amputations.
He knows that his love for her

is bruised, and every afternoon he is confused wandering
the produce aisles, his damp erection as light as a special
sundial, the whites of his eyes fill only with her pilot fire.

Lie here with me, if only for a while. We have been intimate
with all of the animals, abusing each other as we run for cover,
special agents for the broken heart association, feeding
now forever, chasing down a hunger that will never fade.

She beats him until he bleeds silver.
Tonight he only dreams of tulips.