i want group hugs in front of thai restaurants

that last longer than any human

would deem reasonable.

i want a clothbound book

with deckled edges to record

all the unbelievable signs i’ve been reading:

handy hands, swan island dahlias,

largest reptile show in the northwest.

i want wooden chopsticks with my takeout

instead of a plastic fork though what i really

should want is consistent metal cutlery

for all my meals. i want more

lanky androgynous metal guitarists

whose sharp dancing fixes me

in a fugue of orchid-white yearning.

i want more small stories with good endings,

like this one: chessie was walking and met

a brown tabby cat. upon realizing the cat

matched the photos on a missing cat poster

she called his human to say he’d been found.

oh, said the human, he’s an outdoor cat

and he’s been found for awhile now

but i haven’t taken all the posters down

because i forgot where i put them.

it was part of the local lore: people called in

regularly to report sightings

of the cat who was found, and found,

and found again. perhaps exponential foundness

could feel like this: i approach two friends

curled on a comically large beanbag

and ask to join them. our closeness

crescendos until our bodies

enmesh like figures in a klimt painting.

a toast to our squished angles

and luminescent patchwork.

a toast to stomach noises.

i want to climb a semi-extinct volcano

and tell the world about our clump.

i want to be the french braid

on an acrobat’s head.