stay

the second pair of hands evaporates
above the always empty
passenger’s seat,
but the green flakes are
blooming again
after the caterpillars ate it all away.
And I’m glad
to see the gray tint
of spring in the breeze again,
glad to see the clarity of morning
down my own arms
and invisible in the blue.
What speed my feet have gained,
What patience I’d like them
to hold.

maybe wings don’t matter as much

There should be
holes in the sky, ashen.
if dry for the second; clouded
trees fill the space, dust-
y green and blue, for miles
of tinted land.

None of them call to me.
I’m an indifferent animal
barely crunching stones
lif/t.ing soles
above branches
so as not to snap.

Voices without footsteps;
how the sound carries
across fields. When there’s
nobody to block it
but frogs.

I am watched by a moth
trying to get by
my larger shape.
me too, I think.
me too.

see

light;
a morning dust.

Rise. thin and quiet
slow, mist:

a million eyes
empty, one hushed deity

tinseling in space
of leaves of grass,

dew shaken, suspends, monotone
the memory on a seashore;

watching a uniform pattern
lapse again, again we see=watch

half dark
half light

a bead on a string
between brows, never expected

to be a curtain. to find anything
in a place half built.

off-white

“We don’t belong there”
My dad admits
“Walking along as if
I owned the place”
But Dad!

When did we stop fitting?
I want to live
both, I think from a rock,
the pond coppery below.
He was scared by a rattlesnake.

“the thing was huge, it stood
and hissed like this!”
His tan hand curled.
I turn on the rock, into leaves.
A deer jolts away.

I just, I just, I am not-
I try to fit both.
black birds warn me, and stop.
Only mosquitoes aren’t picky,
sometimes

but it really takes a housefly
or a rock dove or a dog
on a leash; we’re not alone.
Chipmunks in the garden,
obese squirrels on the feeder.

I close the door to the off-white house.
My dad is fixing something.
it’s all decay and dust
at some point,
I think.

the way out

“I want you to come with me
into eternity” I asked
of the earth,

But that’s someplace you’ll have to go
alone,

I heard
the first red-winged blackbird
cough to me and the rest,

Get up!
This is the way
out.

The Thing About Rain

The thing about rain is that
it continues dripping for an
unknown amount of time.

Or how perfect it sounds in a pond,
tiny silver trinkets and bubbles
rippling the tree limbs’ mirrors;

I thought the birds would never answer
a gray rainy scenery, but their wing
feathers purr along in the downfall.

So, be like the rain.
And rain in May as you must,
and rain until the sun feels warm again.

But the thing about rain is that
it stops. And not when, but
why: the rain gladly finds a treasure.

Day

A black bird is circling
the tree that cannot come in
from the rain.

Every raindrop rolls off his feathers
like oily hair, like evergreen needles.

The cloud comes down to my window
and brushes my cheek
with a kiss;

the same torrent
washes the crust
from black bird’s eye.

And again
I watch the water
for the first time.

Plastic Bag Mouth

Where have all of the words gone?
Iโ€™m stuck stuttering on air
my lips choke on tongue and teeth;

a plastic bag suctioning
in the abyssal ocean,
silence presses my palate;

larynx, pharynx, trachea:
nothing moves in the glottis
but thin polyethylene.

breathe out slow-
ly
there
is time.

I am
lucky, I have no complaints.

Real life is quiet and still.