Things got terribly ugly incredibly quickly 

Things got ugly embarrassingly quickly 

actually Things got ugly unbelievably quickly 

honestly Things got ugly seemingly infrequently 

initially Things got ugly ironically usually 

awfully carefully Things got ugly unsuccessfully 

occasionally Things got ugly mostly painstakingly 

quietly seemingly Things got ugly beautifully 

infrequently Things got ugly sadly especially 

frequently unfortunately Things got ugly 

increasingly obviously Things got ugly suddenly

embarrassingly forcefully Things got really ugly 

regularly truly quickly Things got really incredibly 

ugly Things will get less ugly inevitably hopefully 

There is a tumor in my sacroiliac joint 
and snowflakes in my coffee. 

I’m in Iowa with the cats
and you’re in Pompeii.

You send a video: lizards rushing into limestone
which remind you of being a kid in Florida. 

In Florida we memorized sonnets
while leaping around green anoles. 

I’ve forgotten the poems. 
Your black tights, even in that heat. 

Mostly that’s what I remember.
It’s okay to say it straight. 

Like: I’m scared, still,
that I might be dying. 

Pomegranates growing from Pompeiian ash, 
scandalizing propriety—

you send a picture and I do not say,
It just looks like a tree

or Another of God’s secrets 
wasted on me. 

Which part of the mind 
gets you to the soul?

I am reading St. John of the Cross,
a character you might’ve put in a poem:

In the evening of life,
we will be judged on love alone. 

Some petrified dog. Table bread,
a painted doorway. 

You’ve been with me forever.
You know all my angels.

How could I say no to you, 
taking off your earrings to kiss me?