Warmth coming down
between green tree bodies,
You, a moss between shale cliffs
entertaining dust gray
Rest before ripping the tear-here tabs
at the edges of orange dusk,
before slow sky plains
into stellate pricks.
Choose a motivation
in knot-tying with grateful people.
You are not to be afraid of your intensity;
cherish it with mighty cupped nerves,
to your most distal
While the same street signs in your temporary home
set like gelatin
You protect, of all voices,
your dawn gray thoughts.
(Hi there! I hope you are feeling strong enough to listen for injustice and strong enough to unravel it within yourself. Mostly unrelated to political things, this poem is meant to push the personal mental space to my sleeves. Maybe I haven’t been ‘real’ enough is all I’m trying to say. Okay, thanks for reading, have a fabulous day!)
Man tugs an endless vine and he won’t be able to swallow or dodge
falling walnuts or beetles. Hands from holes in leaves act out against him.
There is soil in grooves in skin, in knuckle creases.
I think I am a leaf but keep stroking
Man’s rib cage and putting letter
on letters until I direct a whole wall to encase me.
If there were teeth, each mouth would be gritted.
My paragraph will pass through, unlike tree nuts,
like the line
between leaves and sun bleeding over by the river.
We sleep through the most fragile courses.
Numb hands bent at the wrist stroke
our shoulders with fingertips, while dew is forming.
While snakes and wasps slow down, our skin unhinges, laughing;
Focus on breezes until
even wind is no longer tangible. Focus on holes in a floor.
“I don’t think he’s at rest yet”
they agree, saying he’s knocking
on the grave, rolling; Remember
you can only improvise if it is written
down and in bassoon shift;
Knuckles rapping more gently
(than his pen on the music stand)
on the wooden floor, beating joints and fingers
and the swollen notes cough out of us and
out of our accordions still.
No, her laugh is less of a sound
and more of a visual something
you remember in retrospect, more
of a hollow bulge of sun, a
billowing neon rock that when heard
is expansive, but you know
from memory there’s nothing
That’s why I can’t laugh like her.
It’s full of light
and I’m made of soil and
Light is shattering
Across I-70, shards.
open mouths, glistening (Impact, they breathe)
As if I could hear anything but the road
demons braying by my outside rear-views.
It keeps shattering:
a car spilling
across lanes, trucks, tires,
bouncing lights farther
and more comes.
The day shutters
until the unlimited light pinks
at a Maryland rest stop.
My coin slips into the maintained silence
of vending machines.
My coin shatters once blank
(I am beside the wall)
Standing by the edge.
Air quickly becomes water.
Under the ocean are surprisingly
focused focused tunnels.
Our hair floats in them but we don’t
not now need air.
understaI don’t understand
clean ungraceful metal
Libraries are dampened
with shadows, we
read their blooms.
Gather lost skin
into book pages,
their unnecessary fibers
grazing hair follicles,
Dampen the chairs;
move them out of the necessary
shadows, our imprints
are only left.
Our imprints are left as shadows
in papers, in bindings, on dusty
dull metal shelves,
on college entrance essays.
Girlie, I’m glad
you didn’t wait for us.
We are left
ungraceful to read
Cuts out of blue
green water a V
in the horizon.
steam lifts out
of the cut:
To the sun,
A fish stirs.
cans in dark
Bees check holes
in dead sycamore wood
or London planetree;
break the lake.