Is this too a dream?

I dream so well, so deep,
sometimes I can’t tell the dreaming
from the living. The rooms are both blue.

Have you ever thought you awoke, only to
find you were still dreaming? The clocks
on the wall melt like Dali.

When you say I Love You, the words seem
slow. If I reach out to touch you, will you
still be there, will you still be?

single in the summer

You, girl, are preoccupied
with the way heat from an afternoon sidewalk
steams your bare thighs. You let
thunder bang around in the empty
cavity of your day-dreamin mind.

Forget what they sold you.

Love is not a hot dress, a polished spoon,
a bleak expectation, 

It is a moment you’ll never own;
a long-awaited rain slipping into dirt,
or how you can silently lean
into a Miles Davis’ horn 
sounding a single humid and final note.

a Sunday like red wine must

a Sunday like red wine must
as my expectations of your
sweet harvest lips, so tantalizingly close,
like pressed
bodies bubbling in
that Sunday Indian summer way
where outside heat
provides the stomping and
each gasp like long legs swirling down a glass
provides the buzz.

(written early this summer, revised today)

girlhood crush, regressing

girlhood crush, regressing,
he now seems
that one cool boy who sleeps
through philosophy
(the intro class)
with the teacher who
never turns around
unless that dream of falling
snaps the boy awake
with a crash

he seems now
a distant pair of eyes
compelling me
to learn a secret – lean in.