How I'll Know I've Found a Lover

I will know I’ve found a lover when
I’ve found someone who wants to spend
September weekends with me in a house
by Frank Lloyd Wright –
to make love every night
in its Usonian embrace:
and while we eat our eggs on mornings after

in that private glory of a space
we’ll plan a trip to England –
Rye – in April – where we’ll
stay inside the ancient skewed and loping
Mermaid Inn – just ’round the corner from
the early Georgian purpled brick of Lamb House,
Henry James’s famed beloved home.

My lover is the one who’ll know exactly why
and where one wants to roam:
he’ll understand as much as I do that you only
dare to live when you inhabit
everything and know it can be found
exactly where you are, as well as in
a certain number of symbolic spots

in which one needn’t labor to
experience a thing. We will see
the godly markers and the ringing beckoning
of our most private architecture, over which the jots
and tittles of our neural networks
will converge and dance and hover.
That’s when I will know I’ve found a lover.


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