Despite everything, my love:

kisses, probability, post diagnoses,

pyrotechnics and silence;

I am nowhere closer

to a Terza Rima then when I began.


I do not think in meter.


I turn and turn and turn the pages.

The words never come.

Do you have an answer

for the cards of life?


I do

and I don’t.


I love you like the old wood floor

I lay on to write-

comfortable, worn

in all the right places

by the footfall of familiar generations.


You are my warm buttery home.


I have succumbed to your profound fire.

I fear that you have mis-taken me for another:

someone who will extinguish the flames

and return the corners to their darknesses.


Master your dreams, love.

You, yourself said that you know all

I am capable of

therefore, you must know all

I am not.


You are divine, resplendent

mathematical beauty

and I

am wilting-




A paper hat.

A mind-pop.

A viceroy, flitting in early Fall.


-Jesse Haydn

Published by Jesse Haydn Poetry

The written word is life. I am the proverbial poet-at-heart.

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