You turn your blonde head away from me
where I can still see the shadow on your cheek
My naked eye is always looking for your tender skin under all of those garments made in the east
the search for you is never tiresome as the loss we turn away from
or as weary as this pretending that you don’t have a dark side
Forty one autumns are not enough
to hold the hand of someone I love
while the trees take off their golden
robes and shake out the poems they
have been writing over the seasons past.
It is an interruption when the landscapers
rid of the fallen leaves before every single
shape and color are read, like they are throwing
Robert Frost into the trash just before he chooses
Forty one autumns will not be enough to catch the
early sun setting over Appalachia or to light cedar
logs for a fire under the constellations while my dog
sits quietly, staring into the naked trees, looking
for the sound of what we have found and what we are
still looking for.
I went hiking today to escape you.
Down the trail I was greeted by a dog with your name.
Made my eyes sting.
A sweet scent caught my nose and reminded me to breathe.
A boy said “It’s the persimmons!”.
I told you I wouldn’t forget you laughing under the persimmon tree.
How that early fruit numbed my mouth and made us into children.
The black cat and I sit several yards from one another, both eye level with October’s Friday the 13th.
He sits like a reflection, a parallel thought that I’ve just been permitted to see.
His eyes are summer’s
last green hiding place; I envy the way the emeralds translate his intention.
He turns his gaze away toward a sound I cannot hear. Is he weary of being a martyr for superstition?
Then, black as hidden light and silent, he ushers summer backwards around a lost corner so that he doesn’t cross my path.
In his place I see the shape of a voice I know but cannot name, a memory that has no memory and will later carry itself around lost corners unnoticed yet missed.
Moon’s book is now full
and wordless, the waxing night
is ready to read.
he will keep writing the moon
to its fullest paragraph;
with emapthy he traces the round light of loving in dark space.
i am sure i feel a caress of moonbeam writing his mantras down my spine
while shadows stretch out over the night like cats in an alley that no one walks through after dark.
You were the only person I told about the bears.
My ear on your chest heard someone waiting to listen about the dreams.
Your arms were the strongest arms I’ve wanted to hold me and the stronger to push me away.
I told you about the bears hoping you weren’t one of them.
it stops briefly, mid-night high, hoping we will look up to see the things that split air are union,
is patient as a kite teetering to stillness just before it falls back to earth to wait for the child’s return-
together, they will break open the day.
the june stars are suffocating while
i lie supine in an almost dark room listening to the street refuse to sleep
the mountains are far from here sheltering everyone or everything that i left behind
And i lie so still trying to hear a whippoorwill beyond these streets
I raise my arms toward the ceiling and the artificial light that seems infinite spreads across my forearms in a way that makes me cry
If i imagine hard enough, my skin is Carter’s Lake on a summer night spreading across the darkness to reflect the moon
some are sun people gold, skin of mamma’s pearl and coconut; they diggin up sand for a castle.
seaweed people washed up on a beach too, skin of fishin hooks and broken shells; they ain’t gettin no castle.
we are all fools of the tides, always afraid of what time it is or what is comin for the lives we’ve made; our nude skin shivers at the things that could wash us away
but off in the distance, the white waves roll and never stop.