i feel like i don't deserve 

the love poems god writes 
to me-- 
her mountains that
nail a picture frame
around the murky blue 
& deep indigo sky--
her trees that hoist
the clouds on their backs &
shake silk worm nests from their
leg hairs--
my mother points out the
way the farm hills around kutztown
swell & crash in seams of corn &
patch-work soybean-- a tangled
thread cocoon & cursive poetry
tongue--
she is an iambic god--
a structural traditionalist
who unravels open into free verse as
she drops the moon from a yoyo string--
i hang on & get sucked into 
her night catalog of punctuation-- 
outside of kutztown we pass the
abandoned water park-- 
slides filled with ghost children
spilling down on their bellies--
wind-blown hair laughter rattles 
each twisted neck of blue shoots--
i feel empty like the water park sometimes--
like i want god to laugh into my
hair-- wash my freckles in chlorine--
i want to smell fresh & indigo &
stand at the top of the biggest slide
there with no fear of becoming a yoyo string--
come back & write me another poem
god-- & another & another
until the water starts flowing again--
i'm telling you, i'm going to buy 
that water park-- pull the
'for sale' sign out of the ground
& re-paint the
pirate statue by the front gate--
i would spend the first night sleeping
under the roof of one of the 
little pavilions-- laugh at how silly 
it all is-- watch the sunset blush
as she reads the same love story over
again-- the one where god loved
her enough to make her body an
act of poetry-- that's all
of us-- i think to myself
-- that's all of us-- a little
pocket notebook-- a knot 
in a yoyo string suspended
over a town called kutztown with
an un-abandoned water park 
jealous in the distance-- 
hush-- i'm here to fill you
up again--
i'm here to remind you
of all the space you have
left to  be filled & 
tonight the slides are dry &
i am feeling my body as a love
poem-- a husk of corn--
a nail in the side of the
mountain-- 
no i don't deserve the love
poetry god leaves for me--
writes into my body in the language
of freckles & 
sun burn from 
climbing up the ladder
to sit at the top of the tallest
slide in the water park
until the moon rolls off the yoyo
string & night is dark &
full of insect laughter &
the cautious chatter of stars
they give themselves away to me
as punctuation--
marble bags full of periods--
let's end this day in a circle 
or a seam-- a stitch in 
the hips of the hills--
bruised indigo & standing 
as determined as the fading
pirate statute at the gate 
to the water park that is
now another piece of 
this body--