You
I am searching for you, the you
from love songs, the perfect you,
not the flawed him or her, the unlovable
me, but the exactly-what-I-want you,
the you floribunda, the you
of finely trimmed boxwoods.
I have listened to a deep echo sing
about you and who I want, the you
who makes love in a rainstorm,
not the you who refuses to take off
his socks. Give me the you dressed
as a sonneteer, arriving with an armful
of fresh roses, the jewel box you, the saint.
How often have I thought I’ve found you,
but who I’ve found is the burnt meringue,
the stale sourdough, the half-filled cup
of coffee left on the kitchen counter.
Who is this you? The you that never has song,
the you whose perfection lives in a coffin-
shaped bed, who is charming underwater,
who broke the faucet then walked away.
