You Look At Me (II)

May, I am —When I am not August or September. When I’m not raining
or on Fire—Always on fire, always gone. May, I was. When I wasn’t
burning on mars or simply swimming in yr eyes or Gleaming beside
your voice. You were looking at me the way I look at things that
I’d want to trace, or archive, or speak down, and print. You looked
at me the way you’d look at me if you loved in(to) me. You looked
at me the way I’ll look at my daughter when she asks me why I am
crying. You look at me as if you want me closest to you when we’re
breathing. You look at me. That’s what I love about you. You look
at me. That’s what I love about you.