We let the day balm,
unhem warm rains,
in the watery light,
wander to the sink.
Flavoring your hair
with cola oil, I encounter
missed scents
behind your left ear,
writ-small, years-full of young will.
Through the wall, a new song
on the radio—We are difficult to catch
but real. We are lizards on the windowsill.
We weigh heavy names
for light things
in our brains, smooth as fish
in a wash, slip finger-deep
into cream pots—We are difficult to catch
but real. We are lizards on the windowsill.
You’re a new song on the radio.
I’m letting the upstairs bath overflow.
Category Archives: Poetry
The Night Her Own
The glowworm warms
to what she wraps around,
somehow home,
though alone.
As blackness robes
her grove and the salt
of stars through leaves
shows—suddenly, she feels
the night her own. Naturally,
she glows.
The Mild-hearted Moon
The mild-hearted moon
appears earlier
these days, so close
and low in the sky.
Though just ahead, our moon
seems to see us home—
through the gloaming,
over the bridge,
into eager night.
Beforeglow
A softening of syllables,
a bright blur
on the vegetables,
the humidity we listen in
perceptible, and the sky beyond
dip-dyes to blue.
Concrete made a city
of our scenery, but the morning
is yielding, otherworldly,
and the distance, however real, thins
to see-through, interrupted
by the air between.
Though Flimsy at Heart
The cut edge of a cloud
stands out
against its backdrop
of atomized blue.
Until the bell rolls
on its greased axle,
the morning’s music
is not mechanical.
Even with the windows down,
car rides try us
when they’re not to home.
All along the bridge,
we hold our breath
but the middle and the end hurt
so we miss the open sea stretch,
every passenger’s due.
In the Deep Recesses
Born along on undercurrents,
flush with jellies, errant nets,
and plastic bits—we merge
in an earth-scale eddy,
gradually, oceanly.
Deep saltwater swimming,
we express sweatiness
with difficulty, distracted
by bioluminescence
and the rare
burning in our chests—where air
once went, we remember. Long since,
we let the tides take us.
The Sixth Hour
Step out from the shade
and the day’s an empty street,
an entire town asleep
in deference
to the white-walled heat.
We’ll wait, with the cork oak
for company, its toothed leaves
no longer green, but fragrant
as the winding road
up to the winery.
Slack as cats drowsing,
unconscious as the sea,
we’ll soften into the base
of this tree,
our tree, so long
as we delay.
Stepping on Bees
We tamp the lawn
in soft-sole moccasins.
Bee bones
crush quietly.
Too many thirsty bees
sweep our lawn
for sips—low-flyer, insect fire
putter-outer, you wet powder
strung together, you small sting
in hand.
Overgray
Cloud cover insulates our early hours
from the clear blue of afternoon.
A muffled light mothers us
down avenues, just a hint
of the outdoors
on our forearms.
Emptier skies will swim
in our unadjusted eyes
when the sun has nothing left
to burn through. For now, we’ll shelter
under water vapor eaves, at ease
with shapeless shapes, ambiguity.
Earth Eaters
The earths we lure them with
fit inside
their delicate mouths,
just sized
to sift sand.
We interrupt
great nebulas
they spit
with our universal nets,
no yield yet
but gravity
and celestial dust.