sentimental poems?

Valentine, Delivered

womb of remembering, did you ever sing
when your cupboard was the lodge
of hoping, bone bare but gleaming
in room -- in fullness -- all possibility
of holding exposed -- expunging
the trouble of emptiness; your ritual
that which comes with a mouth full
of kindness, the sort of wound
that comes singing -- trilling
as if made of steel and string -- that which
propels, clicks in metal, and turns
to flesh in our arms. We remembered
the way night covered our young bodies
with mist and darkness, gathered the stars
to our faces, hummed us to love, welling
as underground rivers bloom into oceans.

Apiaries of April

Days when the curtains close their pink, we are not ready
for the warm wash of the sun nor for it's message
of unblinking thinking: the summer wonder
of long days sorted into weeks. The water empties
to the oceans, its sweet beds of nettles
and crags of corals. For us above water, the task
is to think through any single idea without sleep --
without waiting for the let-go of dusk when swarms
of lights fill out the grass. The moon is a mirror
that doesn't ask our inner twin for kindness --
only for our dreams, the rib-bones of our longing.