—WHEN THE FLOODWATER COMES IT’S GONNA LOOK LIKE MUD

Oxford Comma

      You meet me at the vanishing point with fiddlehead fingers 

and a sack of empty music.  There are Oxford commas in your 

eyes, stunned fish running out of swimming room.  Still I can’t 

stop loving your larynx, the way you hold my name inside those

walls of air.  The difference between waxing and waning is a 

chasm, a canyon, Death Valley, but just yesterday a woman 

awoke from a coma after twenty-three years.  Her first words 

were, This is all so beautiful. To be here. Now. With you.