The Days Like Apples

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.

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The Care and Feeding of Clouds

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
distance.

A Conversation in Bed

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?

If You’ve Forgotten Summer

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.