How do I

How do I avoid the trappings of the miraculous? 

How do I express the oppression of the mundane and base yearning I have for you? 

I am inclined to believe the poets—

that you are a metaphor, 

that beauty is a Rilkean apocalypse. 

But I just ache. 

You are a virus, 

a superbug, 

the thing ticking me toward my demise. 

You are a stitch in my side, 

an angel poking me with a stick. 

Clearly, the joke is on me. 

I can hear the laughter, faintly from above. 

Will you turn to look in my direction? 

I search for clues of your devotion, 

like a boy digging for treasure in a suburban backyard— 

something shiny now and then. 

My yearning is fueled by a shard of glass or a scrap of foil. 

But it is pointless to resist you, 

I am controlled by only your beauty, 

your face is the center, and I circle you, 

and I will never get enough.  

My name is rebirth. 

I am the phoenix, 

the endless recurrence. 

I am Sisyphus rolling the rock of my desire.