I stare out the streaky garden window,
peek past the philodendron I can’t seem
to keep alive, the cactus I can’t kill;
ask why those far-away city lights
always shimmer at night as if they’re blinking,
glimmer as if they’re winking – it’s not
crucial, but it is something to discuss.

Your answer is a labyrinth – heat waves,
light waves, dispersion, refraction, distortion;
though I’m only half listening, I am surprised
at how your knowledge perverts my perceptions.

You’d think two people who are clever enough
to debate Doppler and Steinbeck, Dadaism
and Debussy, Taoists and Diogenes would be equally
adept at the topic of love. Love isn’t up
for discussion. Ardor isn’t glimmering,

shimmering city lights. Passion is the airplane
that rushes through those city lights
and roars over my head. I don’t need
to ask why it stays aloft because we’ve discussed
aerodynamics before. What I need to know
is why it’s going south. You’ll double-check
every schedule. Then you’ll say it’s going south
because that’s what’s on the flight plan.