Remember the morning
I came down and convinced
Us we were dead?
Being too early
And too quiet to prove otherwise
We believed it
A greater hush came
Across the room
And together we grew stranger
Like strangers in a waiting room
Exchanging glances, a polite smile
And a hello.
Sometimes in the jangle
of the day
Are the words, I love you.
But what is the truth?
Being truthful?
Or was it the moment I let you down
The breeze stirs
on top of the river
And blows on
The fish move faster
in the current
Slack and then snap
angrily at the darts
plopping in among the surface
Is this a memory?
A history of thoughts
Dropped to the enemy
A ghost without
Its muscles its bones
Nothing but a husk
And here we think
It to be—know it all
The last two days
You have gone mad
And once again I
Cannot help you
Though I be still
Fishing—
Writing on this page
Flesh and bone
and mostly spirit.
Look you
Marked for love
What pants
What sweater
What blue space
Next to star
Hangs on you
What drapes close
And open revealing
A kiss finally
Summer
Buds
Caterpillar
Piano noise
Coming off the street
Seeds
How does one keep cool
Be more sure-footed
Be important
Ha, what sound
From what foam
Bubbling from a stream
Laugh like an old man
Count the cats
And sometimes
This is enough
Birds float by the sun
What sometimes
And, lastly, and all to well
What have I done
Fallen asleep
Like everyone.
Tell the shampoo girls
That Sundays are best
For pumpkins
And the horse face boy
Tuesday’s for thought
Monday’s monarch
Rests on a wave
Of noons moons
What days are left in
Leftovers Wednesday
Wire and Thursday’s
Mote. Fridays
Freelancing and
Saturday’s note.
