You’ll find something endearing
like thumbholes in thermals and the next thing
you know you two are eating burgers
with only mustard and having sex in a public park
and feeling high-school danger after
you get caught by a seventy-year-old cop
who’s so embarrassed that he can’t even look
either one of you in the eye. And you’ll feel
even more high school guilty later that night
when you take a hockey stick
and smash his mailbox and how right before
you swing you see that he has hand-painted what
looks like a falcon in the middle of a family crest.

Years later, after you two destroy and leave
each other, you’ll think of her and that night
and think of Yeats and wonder if he was right
that we’re all falcons with no falconer.
Like a falcon, love is hollow and capricious
and moody. But then you’ll remember
it’s also full of light and ecstasy and blissful risk.

That somehow we know where to go
and when and why. Or else we think we do
and we’ll just end up stupid and fried, caught and caged
by our own inability to see what’s really there.

about the author
Dayton J. Shafer loves the smell of horses and gasoline. He’s also done fancy stuff like interviewing and publishing Guggenheim Fellows. The majority of his post-BFA life has been spent eating tapas, drinking local beer, hiking precarious trails, and writing for local and national publications. He regrets nothing.