Love waits for us to find

I stepped in a bit of love
this morning
on my way home when
I wasn't in my normal stride.
Funny it seemed
to be waiting there for me
as I stepped off of the sidewalk
and into the gutter.
A mounded reconstitution of rain
like a dog pile ready to fill my world
with a squishy pungent odor.

Now that I have the stain
on my sole
I cannot gain its absence.
Love and my existence has not
been lately discovered but with me
all the while.

Thoughts with vacuuming

I cannot make you see what
isn't really there--

Making a spectacle of myself
in front of the wilting lettuce,
the red-felt bowl of shriveled ginger and
decimated garlic,
I collect myself in the untraveled
spaces behind opened doors,
along the distance of the floor,
beneath the walls and
joined with the quietly breathing dust
mites and wispy balls of hair set
into the corners of our conversations
by the daily unsung motions
of living things-
the blood clot lints spun from small
cotton rugs,
the dropped stains of coffee
rings and dried consumed concoctions,
scurfs of habitual living
and the dross marked paths between them,
pushed by brooms and
people that move them.

It is there I fly
down along the disasters
ground of our discourses,
gathered by the wakes from greater things
trapped on the way to the dustbin.