moths, we escape the flame but not the grocery list

I never wanted ordinary
but you raked the leaves left over
from last year or the year before,
I'm not quite sure any more,
you tinkered with the lawn mower
and cut the softest greenest grass,
was it only three days ago cherry blossoms
inspired both our poems? somehow
we write and never get in each other's way
even though we argue about your socks and my ideas=
loud enough
to wake undisciplined thoughts lying with
the revenge of the meticulous dead,
we've seen Van Gogh, Dali and Rodin,
panels of impaled butterflies that looked like stained glass,
I am deeply horrified, the woman with two young children
felt the same way too,
at my daughter's art show,
(my children quite adore you,
do you know?)
we agree to disagree,
love the same vast expanse of colour,
shadow and light
breaking smooth mirrors like vestiges of a long, still night;
the woman with the palest turquoise eyes
took your breath away and I noticed an old friend,
jealousy, like a bird on wing, come home to her gilded
cage,
we laugh like Keystone cops or Cheech and Chong,
sometimes even I'm the fall guy, 
you
read to me sublime
poetry written by outlaws such as Patty Smith
and Jack Micheline
you're an actor in disguise,
(how can I trust your words of undying love?)
you slam me back to life,
awaken me again and again
with hungry fingers on my thighs,
play me with rhythms
with throbs of desire,
we lick our lips with things that no longer matter,
reborn with Alleluyahs dancing
in our eyes,
we were born free and
we will die

How extraordinary the sound of church bells on Sunday morning
while you lie in bed sleeping and I write this poem,
how ordinary that I am fulfilled and that dreams are prophesies.

Somewhere a heron flaps smoke wings, flies away with the
object of his meditation and his river flows into sea.