Marked for Love

Look you

Marked for love

What pants

What sweater 

What blue space

Next to star

What wars

Do we bang

On what rocks

To kiss finally

Summer

Buds

Caterpillar 

Piano noise

Coming from the street

Seeds?

How can one be

More sure-footed

Then sometimes bang

What important

What sound

From what foam

I make

Laugh like an old man

And count the cats

Sometimes

This is enough

Birds float by the sun

What sometimes

And, lastly, what have I done

Fallen asleep 

Like everyone.

Roller Rink Sadness

I am forever forgetting

That these last few laps

Were pathetic. The disco 

Ball and swirling organ

Music has kept me off

My game. Will I ever

Make it back to one

Line of thought. Or

Will I continue on

this film loop? 

Tape slapping against 

the reel. One last round

You are still beautiful 

But I don’t play you anymore 

From Beautiful Locks

For seven miles we hoofed it

Chasing after a good idea
The waters stopped searching
For the ocean and puddled
I poured myself a mule
A wounded mule wiped
From beautiful locks.

What I poured myself
For seven miles 
Charm on a dog

Sugar-lined streets 

And a good idea
Were eyes prettier
Then the look
Of a sandwich
Grabbed at the hardware 

And then home to the snake-bite

Or a quatrain on love
Amber waves a mantra

Clear as the bottom of a lake
Where you and I were 

Charged with swimming.

Like the Buddhist

Like the Buddhist

I do not believe 

in the afterlife

but on Sundays 

When the bells ring

 in the lonely town

 of Leverett

And there are

Those I know 

Burried nearby

I stop to hear

Not their dirge

Though their names

Be in it

But rather

I would like to think

Our secret pond

That one time

We swam

A car ride

For Chinese food

Or our beautiful walk

For coffee 

The back and forth

Of you and me rocking

Before our tongues

Could curl 

Move or flex

To move through it all

To say what we have to say

Or just to make a sound.

 

Dating the Days

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.

Speaking

 How one returns from heaven or honey 

It’s pains how sticky 

the farmer, driving his empty 

truck through the beautiful 

maples of spring, never gets to the telling 

of it. Especially as the sage sways

He never gets to the telling of it

Even the way you look up at me

Late in the evening right before sleep

With your eyes that I cannot read

In the gray blue essay of yours

knowing I do not stand a chance

In your ache

We cannot keep silent

We cannot keep silent.

Forgetting Notes

I remember what happened 

in elementary school

even if you don't

Fiddles arrange like blood clots

The flutes futility stands

You hear, you always hear 

this is not quite enough

together we promise fullness

We promise the conductor 

Will play the drums

As the drummer watches

As the whole orchestra 

Carries on

We promise we will

Give you a sign

Even when we are dead

So as to make your life

A little less like

The dark void

Moving closer to oblivion 

But that is a hefty ask

Don’t you think

The day before the snow

Is sunny and the sun

Comes into the room 

And warms the cat

Where she is lying

It sits on the carpet 

In warm and bright 

Spots of the day

Here is the only promise 

The rest needs to be invented