We were young and the days
like apples ripened in our hands –
so sweet we only wanted to believe.
Our successes grew easy like weeds
that shade a drought-garden. Grew
so even, we had plenty when winter
came. And this was what we knew
of life – the sugar.
He showers in much the way
one constructs a cloud, arms
hectic like a conductor. He
assembles mists on moors
there in the bathroom each
morning. When he hears fog
horns, he returns never having
been gone, but traveling a vast
You know, your jacket that you call
coat can live here if it wishes? Your
bag you call sack from the whaling
museum can stay as well. Your
clothes are happy on my floor –
if I’m a reader of clothes. You don’t
enjoy where you are. Why not move
in here, what you call there? Why not
love – called hard, called soft?
Summer is delicate with the lace
of wings come home. It remembers
the page, the stanza, the line where
it left off. It doesn’t rest until it makes
over beaches, brews iced coffee
and writes several bestsellers. It’s the
water park, the roller coaster, the
sci-fi thriller. And it begins as limitless
brushstrokes of feathers returning.
By the light of darkness, I move
across meadow sponges
to a realm of not yet, as he has
died, and I am left beneath a tree
saying, You are missed. I miss
you. We all miss you. You will be
missed. People notice you are
missing. The hardware misses
you. The mailman doesn’t yet
In my warm midnight,
the rain knew only to lull.
Made for soft music, nights
like these. So, the rain
played ’til dawn.
You, who rise to the top of any
crowded room, who never greened
in spring assignations, your cadence
spills of poetry, you hand out holidays
of thought, you win at sun showers.
Tell me, how is the weather across