Pink sabers stab a volume of Ashbery
and I shake the crying alphabet out of the pages
as soon as I am done checking my email.
I have three from God, but they look lengthy.
Maybe tonight before bed. B nudges my thigh.
T and F comfort each other,
latched for dear life. N bellows,
and C tries to slip under the table
unnoticed, but I catch him.
I want to reassemble them, create an audio montage
of the aural imprint of love
because I see its notes, high and low, everywhere