Sweet Potato Haircut

My love

I have not raised it as an explosion,

ticking toward a finite

and violent end. There will be no countdown,

there will be no date or place

in time where my love cracks

into some disembodied thing that leaves my chest ruptured.

My love has not grown into something temporary.

My love reaches into the depths

of things I know:

The trees grow while I’m watching.

The winds have been in lungs of people

I will never meet

I am only awake for a brief time

before I sink back into the sea.