Billet Doux in the Key of Fight/Flight

Try to count the countless
ways love rids us
of ourselves, only to thrust
us back against

the non-reality of all
we fear we'll
never be. Wet Oregon wind,
now. Icefall. Unruly mind

dissecting the choice
to divest the dry solace
of California coast,
the luxury, the sun-tossed

Pacific, in favor of —
fuck. Stop. You were on love
and loss, not the vicissitudes
of displacement: the trued

self that blooms from how
communion makes us bow
to the shadow we can
no longer not see, the stain

our other will resonate
until the rains quit
their Northwestern
certainty, spurn

the ageless loam
they've called home
for as long as we've
been — the salve

of love (stay focused
damn it!) not, finally, trust
of the other but assent
to that most ardent

of risks: to breathe in
the truth of that person
so fully, you finally become
your own ragged sum.