Administration, The Love Poem.
John Myers

You are generous,
for instance, because
I know you are with
no one to share the
sensation. Start here.
My peahens propagate
by giving birth to
scores of peacocks. If
I could just mouth
you unshyly. To
be the revolver,
in silver, and call
you home. To be a
puppy, you attract
gnats, I understand
your gloss as even,
citrus, strange as wire
writing in the sky.
Would that I were that
sky. I mean, I think
loss, too, strange, myself.

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