I Love You, Joe Ceravolo + Sweet Venus + Feldspar
Dan Chelotti
I Love You, Joe Ceravolo
If you can think crushed lollipop
Then you can be the ant
You won’t mind the lack of sun
Or the reek of distant harbors
Singing farewell in this light
The shadow of stretched elm
The umber of
The quiet turn
The shadow of parsley
The silent marrow
A slight breeze through a buoy
A tall man counting to ten
Sweet Venus
For a while we wondered
Why the sensation of being
Which pours from the stars
Doesn’t require a name.
In this way our beginnings
Were simple and simply passing.
We smiled as we danced
The grass flat. But then,
As always, the carbs
Of late summer gave us a bit
Of a rash. Now, how many
Years has it been since
I said the name? Years
Range as cattle, as smoke,
As Gods, as patience,
As signs, as exhausted
Machines, as the madness;
Numbers range around emptiness
Like dogs around rest.
How much time is left?
How many months did I live
In the flats? How many times
Did I kiss her? Insubstantial, free,
The years flee the scene.
Feldspar
Wracked
By fortune,
By lamp
Light, by
Love, a
Music
Returns.
Dreadful
Song. Lost
Dog. Landing
Kiss. Baggage
Claim. Long
Gone ache.
Portraiture.
Famiglia.
I consider
My resources.
Stash. River
Spot. Wire.
A film of
Running
Water.
This body.
Pentecost.
Zilch. I give
Up. I am caught.
I am last and
First to fall.
Humility
In trousers.
A bottle
Of glue
Nearby.
Bottles
Of lapis.
Bottles
Of wine.
Accurate
Theatrics
Strung up
By guesswork,
The volunteer
Misses the
Point by landing
On it. May
Martyrs
Receive them.
I wish for
Warm rain
And get
The mail.
Flip for my
Seldomate
(All rights
Reserved)
But it hasn’t
Come. Or has
It? Act 2 is
When it gets
Good. Do
The research.
May love be
An unwrought
Bend. Sonata
Sounds from
A mill house
Window. Sea
Son season.
I don’t feel
Right. Panic
Is such a
Mediocre
Artifice.
I should
Worry a hobby
Instead. Prop
Up the past
Window.
Celebrate
Hubris.
Retire
Trouble.
But then
The lost dog
Wants to be
Held and I
Let myself
Hold it.
Curry shelter.
Surrender.
And go home
To those who
Cry. As if I could
Be something
More than
A ferry.
Dan Chelotti is the author of “x” (McSweeney’s), and two chapbooks, The Eights and Compost. His poems have appeared in Poetry, A Public Space, Conduit, American Poetry Review, and many other journals. He teaches at Our Lady of the Elms. He is an editor for Collider. He lives in Massachusetts with family.