Swell, softly:

James Bowden

She loves me; she loves me not:

Warm hands, consistent kisses and texts are
a necessary boon at times. A sense of here &
now, even though not
                                                                   exactly
what you want, even if you must tell yourself
that he is. Especially if.

Which is to say: everything is
                                                             dreadfully
conditioned on the self. How beautiful. And
hence on circumstance, too.

Which is to say: she loves me so, but cannot
                                                                   sustain
herself on yearning and moonshine. As have
I. Masochism is not
                                                                   chosen,
but rather, stumbled into. Suffering this good
does not just
                                                                   happen.
One must claim it.

Which is to say: swing wide your crane. And
swing wide your crane. And
                                                                        run
                                                                        me
through.

---

This poem was written while I was mulling over some Bon Iver lines a lot, these on the crane particularly from The Wolves. And the first line a Shakespeare reference.