Before Bed, A Poem Came
Before bed, a poem came
Decidedly mine
Written, slipped
beneath the silk cover
Unable to close my eyes again,
I dug myself out of the weighted wool
to peak out the window,
To see the summit laying snowside to my sleepless endure
By the time you said hello,
I was gone.
Mucking my way through,
a fruit fly not far behind
the narrowing of my eye.
My love held between
a fly mask,
And as I travelled
the moon met me,
over the washed meadow
where weeds sat unplucked.
I turned around knowing
you’d still be there,
waiting, wishing my heart was indifferent,
negotiable, shapeless
to the same truth that led me here.
I feared the trail,
the going so alone,
but the alternative felt
like a greater abandoning—
the horseshoe left behind.
By the Time You Said Hello
Liberation is Subjective
Falconry
Plushing
Untenured
Ladle lipped soft
Hardening felt
Despondent
Taxonomy
Pirouette
Frock
Slips
From my collars
My boned vacancy
Truancy of soul
Abandonment beckoning
Pardoned condoled
Summer
Is
almost here
Yet I am unwarmed by the idea
The Herrings Were To Head South That Night
The herrings were to head south that night.
We were present with farewells.
My palms laid flat on the wood,
on the dock,
as I stared you into the new year.
Our lips met, though I much preferred your eyes,
the springs,
the stories,
from land to man, to man to sea.
I walked into a piece of you, starved.
The lukewarm slough,
the mud,
the sun—
you invited me there.
And after,
you washed the prairie off my skin.
You took a wash rag,
draped it over,
dragged it down,
from my neck to my loins,
at the parting of my thighs.
I’ll Take Anything as A Sign
Catocala ilia
Obeisance
I’ll make hell if you go,
I’ll think twice for a dime
Spit fire in the flume
Choke bunnies for
What
It’s
Worth
Knack for iniquity
Tap for soda
Sugar steam
Down my thigh
Down the Cantilever
That’s Clagged
By a Turkish bath
Where a whore unwraps her mazuma
Come With?
Come with?
To the brink.
Sprig the pump.
Quench my dry.
Spoon the honey.
Coat me raw.
Stoke the log.
Warm my spine.
Suck my shiver.
Knead these balmy thighs.
My extremities are waiting,
and this damp is of your making.
My fantasy unfolding…
my skin so very stuck…
Lichen on the basalt rock.
Vinyl
The dry bits
of my crinkled cell
are tarragon,
the color,
the sink left running
Precious ominous,
farrow a sow
I have thoughts too
Dirt-covered shrine,
the needle dug through,
dotting an O,
fishing for a groove
Asking someone new for a flower
for an arrangement
I
must
profess
This German classical,
reminds me of my rooted insanity—
my lost wabi-sabi.
Wedged Between Rock is a Bone White Fuchsia
Wedged between rock
is a bone-white Fuchsia.
It has lived many seasons—
winterized in frost,
summered in dew.
Smoldered by fire
is a certain blue.
Not an Azalea,
a Love in Mist,
nor a Forget Me Not.
Save the darkened bits
and purpled hue,
a Himalayan Poppy
encased the wind—
shedding Autumn’s loom.
Closing in is a storm.
Down did it pour!
Ungodly heights!
Unforgiving winds!
Indifference to soil!
Falling petals,
pelting down!
As hail does
smiting God.
The flowers,
so still
and touched.
Unrelenting
in the reaper’s breath.
There is much to say about flowers
that have yet to die,
even if words do not form.
A Poem Comes, it is Never Asked for
A poem comes; it is never asked for,
but I’ve thought of you, indiscriminately,
without a rulebook.
In purity, my heart on palm,
releasing a clench,
finding an openness to niceties.
I think first of being in the truck bed,
playing songs I always hoped to use,
relate to, and not cancel out,
laying on top of your bones,
all over, in, under.
I think of the way our eyes met,
as if it wasn’t a meeting, but a merging,
not a maybe in mind,
but a yes guaranteed.
I think of the way I felt when you walked away
for gas, food, must’ve been something for me.
I was like a dog awaiting your return.
It was fulfillment,
you coming “home,”
like the Pringles in the hitchhiker’s belly.
I think of us, again, in the truck,
you and I, unfolding flowers.
No pretense, worry, or escape design,
just stillness in the pelting of rain on tarp.
You hit soft,
like the creek water that took your legs and not mine,
piggybacking me across the stream.
I think of how you put the pot on the stove
in the dead of night,
despite the biting frost.
I think of how you remember
my distaste for candied watermelon,
my goings, comings, and all that I bring.
I think of how the wood split in two
when you thought the same of us.
Still, the fire was built by your hand,
and maybe even your heart—
seeing
that me
in it
makes it warm.
