Night, wide-brimmed,
settles wild wanderings
in our early
American hearts, fatigue
live chains
loathe to lift themselves
yet imperceptibly intertwined
in our legs again. Let’s lie down
by the stream (she knows
she’s older than her name)
and sink in. The poems
we speak in sleep,
thick with reeds and wet
with recent rains, may camouflage
our foreign origins. The moon,
she is a soft lens.
Monthly Archives: February 2014
I Am the Sea
I listen to myself
before falling asleep
and the waves
press dark dreams
into my cheeks—
months of rain,
you away—
Only the gulls’
morning calls
pull me awake.
Rimmed in Water
You ought to walk down
to the creek this time
of year, all crisp
and sun-cheeked, fallen leaves
and forest floor
to your knees. A deep pool
waits, with trees
and a shy trout and a crayfish
who never comes out. I think
they are the ones
the framed song
in the library
is about.
What Sun?
What sun set
the hour we spent
holding young trees aside
to reach
the edge of the cliff
where the ocean
opens? I swear
the same sun
is setting here tonight,
though maybe
I’m seeing it now
from a quieter,
less searing side.
Oil-painted Sky
Why work with clouds that dry?
What day longs
to unchange?
Let your clouds layer
and rearrange. If you pick them out,
they end up feeling all the same.
Alone Away
He’s up
and left me.
Sighs escape—
the soft seeds
cottonwoods make.
Already, I’ve mistaken
the date,
given whole days
alone away.
Lost Ocean Rd.
Hang new leaves
against the sky, tempt
the breeze astray, offer us
monarch butterflies,
but we are passing
to the sea
and cannot stay.
Shoulder the coast
along our cove.
We’ll stick to your shade
on the salt-walk home.
Neighborhood Walk
I hold small hurts
in the folds
of my skirt.
They fall
when I forget.
The sidewalk’s soft
with feelings
I’ve dropped,
glutted with tender spots.
Airfield
Moments trail from our arms
like silk scarves, lightweight,
some lost on the way.
We cut through the blue
in small silver planes, the day
distorted in our wake.
Our vapor messages
a heart…a face…
diffuse into soft shapes
the sky disappears.
Bath Overflow
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.