I wasn’t paying enough attention to my apple and bit my tongue

Tongue (not macintosh)
is another planet reappearing;
incisors mash heavy muscle pulse
and warm your head.

Like seeing the the sun a white
(black) dime in the pond,
glittering too directly
for one small processing unit.

Flip. I
will not stare
into the black hole
in the water.

I will not
redden my eyelids
while pond pulls lost
maple leaves to dam.

Do you see the rest
holding ecstatic sunlight
with pines and birches?

how you are not afraid
they are watching your feet.
Your bitten tongue is a crust
of dry leaves at the dam,

modest sun
mailing planets
back to you.

banana bread

that unmistakable smooth yellow fruit
pounded into a loaf shape
like flour and water and sugar
is still calling me
from crusty bits of chocolate.

Calling me because
there’s been a misfire
in someone’s neurons.
There’e been a misfire
in how the hose fits the radiator,
spraying antifreeze through the front.
There’s been a misfire in how I remember
the smooth taste of pumpkin, mashed in
chocolate chips, and how long
since you last made my favorite bread.

But that’s life, you’d say,
I’ve been busy,
you know.

I agree. We’re all too busy
trying to fit the stars in their correct
shapes, trying to plug up the little holes
in the curtains.
Either that or the dust will get to it first.

It’s not right, you know,
how we’re always looking at bananas upside down.
We wouldn’t know. We didn’t pick them,
didn’t climb the trees, didn’t wait for it to ripen,
didn’t enjoy the banana before it turned brown.
We’re failures as monkeys, after all.

impossible green

green, for foot paces.
all the way to the end of eyelids.
green is a necessary color
in flowering.

green is covered in snow.
now it is trying to shine from every corner.

Parsley wilts in arrows beneath the light
it’s cold hair won’t unplant
until all the garden is green, toothed and smooth
arching climbing clumping sprawling trailing
until all the garden is green, fuzzy and glaucous
carrying pods berries petals hips
until all the garden is green, it crumples

shrinks back into the garden soil
where all things are light, so bright
because your pupils are so small
in the snow. White and dead
but not lost for chances.

Tomorrow it rains.

What is up

clouds are low along the rooftops.
They’re grazing on lost bolts and dusty shutters
in the front lawn, muted by a dying orange heap.
We’ve gladly been offering up these nuisances
to the clouds, but seem never to evaporate.
It is gray, but after all
it is a good day, the last
of spring’s leave see-saw on branches,
crusty and rooting for snow.
Imagine it; a tilted gray cast
and perpetual indistinguishable silence
in a myriad of white flakes.
Motion seems still.
It is in this slow descent
that toeing shuffling comes
to a stop,
and looks up:

from the pith

Leaves forfeit after all, dismounting and falling away almost like snow,
their branches and buds are bare.

Red and yellow are the only pure colors left to die.
Blue shrivels up with the sun’s casting-off–

I have pushed lucid hints out
to sea, it is a scape,
a bull, a let-it-go-this-too-shall-pass,

I converse drought resistant Others
with you,
behind closed eyes of silence
and watch mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers and their pithy chlorophyll descend
finally to where we are.

Dear stranger, I have to thank you
for not kicking me or turning a green eye, cold.
I have to thank you, for dancing when I wish to pull the land around me, with all of its twiggy crusts.
And, dear stranger, I am sure now
there is no such thing as being lost, but
we must not let ourselves hollow away.

fall begins

er, her ears
sink with her shoulders,
me, sitting
here, here
is sky
and you
should see
all the little leaves
and the big birds flying
with the little birds
black to us, returning
to a tree with thumbs
and red creeping out
of the tips, clean
but, oh entropy.
clean, but oh,
slowly her eyes
into place,