Dreaming of Tuesday’s
parties, glorious rippling
colors, all manner of
food and gaiety, strangers with
strange stories, big ridiculous hats,
cacophony of singing,
and drunkenness, lots of it
spinning, hours disappearing
under the weight of the night
and slow dancing whispers,
all versions of us
unwilling to believe in a
Wake up! Wake Up! There is so much
To do! Watch the trees, flush with green,
How they open their sun catchers
And breathe just like us. There are ripples to create and
Secret worms to unearth.
Come, test this messy black dirt
With your bare feet and count the many
Grains of light on your tongue.
Wake up now, small one, and find your life in the dawn.
Time and its relativity are clear now.
The animals and I keep a same schedule, and like them,
I believe I still matter. Hours are meaningful
Although they carry no cash.
Instead of colleagues, I converse with a cold front.
Clouds dash by at a pace I
Don’t know. Underneath, fears lap like
a flooding creek. I let them go;
tossing pieces of grass with gravity.
Time is stretched by gratitude.
I no longer rush. Let’s throw a ball
for the dog. I choose my adventures and
look up when I like.
There is space to expand and contract. To be.
We are now our own universe.
Tomorrow, a concept, just out of reach.
wearing heels, clearly hair
teeters to the
brick walk edge, how a black
in one swift
lurch chokes down a fish
disappears from view.
and the wolf man looks in my direction and
we share a conversation through our eyes
the way it is when you have oceans to cross
before morning the way light takes its sweet time
from pupil to widening pupil and i know you’re
with her but the possibilities linger like so many
silent proclamations of could it be that love comes
in so many ways? could it be that we in another time
would have been queen and king of this rotten
bar this rotten dirt patch that clings to our rooted feet……
on certain days that circle twice and curl up
like a cat (or the corners of your peculiar smile)
i believe i’m the only one who sees how ducks
take naps at 3pm, or how the hairs on your arms
taunt the breeze of a trepidatious day.
on certain days that lay over like ferns in a
softly wooded cashmere forest i believe
the world can have magnetic poles capable of
keeping us straight and narrow, but only if we choose
to ignore the way the auroras confound the sky.
oh the cut
of an East Coast figure,
a jaw sharp, the
sawed off edges of
an Atlantic arm
you can keep
your curves soft
of a Cali coast,
I’ll take my man
lit by industry, sheen
I feel like I’m dying in these fog filled mornings,
that one orange streetlight a fuzzy eyesore and my mind is buzzing
with the lack of memories.
Somewhere in the daze of the morning drive, listening to the song
the same I heard before I left you last night. The last time
lingering your scent
it freely dances across my sweater and into my nose
Could we go back there and figure things out? I think
the heavy rain makes a beautiful sound when it hits the glass
and slides on down;
I think we might have a chance if we could only take home
the hazy clouds, lay down, and sleep a little
finally sleep a little