warmth

Warmth coming down
between green tree bodies,

You, a moss between shale cliffs
entertaining dust gray
nodules,

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,

chuckling
to your most distal
callous skin.

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!)

present

you’re looking past your hands
like they are an old man
picking up tennis balls
too slowly, too meticulously,
marveling at the bright yellow gems
he’s putting in a metal basket.

drowse

I attempt to push the roof
out of it’s downward slant
in the warm place behind
my dull teeth.

Nothing happens.
yellow light moves in the trees,
Bouncing the suggestion of a sunset
Outside of my face.

I’m home again, sitting
watching the cat open
and close her eyes,

Everything
sounds the same.

lucky flies

sopping, I glisten
sun pooling around my fingers.
the pond is swampy,
filled with birds
and linen-white moths.

I once ran with a friend who couldn’t stand
being circled by flies.
There was nothing we could do
to stop them,
she insisted we swat
and hollered;
This isn’t even enjoyable
any more!

You can outrun them, or
if you sit
still, they’ll leave
uninterested.
They, like us, have only two eyes
though compounded.

That’s how I must look
nestled between skinny trees-
unseemly and
compounded.

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.

legs, lungs, and the ocean, again.

Legs are made of fire,
of a slightly differential black and
white tingle.
Ready pulse
while the I floats,
a broken packet of color-
for a moment spread in mid-air.

Then, there is the ocean.
Clear/black circle
from which everything with lungs
will crawl, perhaps.
Those in the ocean
don’t worry about the heat of limbs,
it flows in and out.
But it’s always in.
and it’s always out.

Lungs are large, almost top heavy
but like a perfect tide
air goes in, and out,
keeping arms from lightning
and legs from falling still.

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.

familiar

Much like
White my face in the front of a spoon,
the window does not hide
White these familiar gray skies.
It’s a languid night;
White I cannot hear the bugs
except for some leftover static
White of a blood-sucking fly
in an ellipsoid
White upside-down kitchen.