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 … Continue Reading ››
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.