summer dreams

I dreamed my sleeves were full of crabs.
I dreamed I went to the doctor
and she told me everything was wrong.
I dreamed that you got married.
The world is made of fragile wires,
I wonder how it holds together.

Springtime

All colors are changing from gray-white to green
while springtime spins circles and drools as it cleans.
Ice frozen is melting an inch at a time,
froth rivers in gutters all gravel and grime.
All rivers are rushing: the first day of spring.

Our bodies now follow the course of the thaw,
a stretch in each hamstring, a yell in each jaw,
of bright words that break free like rivers unbound
from banks that were deafened from muting each sound.
All sounds are now singing: the first day of spring.

We sprawl on the front porch with arms opened wide
to gather the light as our atoms collide.
The sun crashes over with curious eyes,
our hearts buzzing softly like lazy houseflies.
All hearts beat together: the first day of spring.

As seeds all split open and leaves all twist loose
the season is jumbled, a tumbled-up truce.
Our feet pressed together, thin sole to thin sole,
a half of a half and a half of a whole.
All halves slam together: the first day of spring.

Interlude

“I am so glad we live here together with our yam”

he said, putting hope in her hailstone heart.

They fluttered tiny wings, licked icicles,

fell sick, convalesced.

Through the betrayal of November, the knife-wound of January

they unfurled wings so small and gray.

Nearly invisible.

Beneath dull skin the flesh is bright.

In spring what else will come loose, break free,

take flight?

Love is a sweet potato. Love is a moth.

Illumination

Finding text you took up ochre and iron,

etched the pale vellum of my mind with gold.

Illuminate this manuscript, these eyes.

Line words with woad and coal and images of birds,

fill with tumeric and lead what has been black and white.

Blank verse entwined with vines, my veins are verdigris

vessels in the workshop of your cinnabar smile.

Stiff spines stretch, a book opens,

plain pages disappear into an indigo night.

Freedom

I hope that someone was thinking of me
at the exact moment that I,
thrashing the centerline of the dark highway
between Clovis and Roswell,
hit 100 miles per hour.

Everyone is always thinking of something else,
and I thought only of the death-shudder
of the steering wheel.

Life

Life is complementary to life.

It is too many things not to match with itself:

The muscle-clench crunch of December snow,

fifteen minutes of afternoon sleep,

bank swallows darning the air.

In the morning we wrap lunch in wax paper,

go swimming in our clothes,

lie in the unleavened sunlight.

I would happily make sandwiches with you

until breast cancer finds and kills me.

Lemons

She gave him lemons

that they squeezed over a floppy chicken,

then baked inside its soggy skin.

Later they ate the meet, their prying fingers

peeling off white strips for greasy mouths.

He gave her beer and wine and whisky,

coffee and tea,

hard bread and rough romano cheese.

They got high from a bud burning in a ballpoint pen.

At four am he took off her glasses,

uncovered eyes bare and bold.

Their faces wavered

but did not meet.

In the morning they woke curled head to foot,

sore and dry-mouthed on the couch.

He gave her a glass of water before she drove home,

thirsty for lemonade.

Shoplifted Cheese

You cut the sandwich in half,
without asking if I wanted half a sandwich.
You broke frozen bread in half on your knee
and stuffed it full of shoplifted cheese.
You made me feel smart and clever
though I know I am anyway.
A well-meaning charlatan is still a charlatan, they say,
yeah a well-meaning charlatan is still a charlatan.

You poured me a cup of tea
and read such good books to me.
We stayed awake til dawn
yeah I fell asleep at dawn.
The next week you were kissing that other girl
and wouldn't hang out with me.
A well-meaning charlatan is still a charlatan, you see,
yeah a well-meaning charlatan is still a charlatan,
and and adorable liar is still a liar
and Aladdin is still a thief.
And Robin Hood had STDs and every actor plays a part.
When will I learn not to sell half my heart for half a sandwich?

Lines

i.

At five am, after nibbling
the coarse corners of dawn,
our mouths are full of hours,
our feet are bound to earth.
Goodnight, he says, and tumbles upstairs.
Through the hundred-year old floorboards
I hear him walking-
a heartbeat through old plaster, pummeled waterpipes.
His footsteps are fingertips
tapping a table. Together
we slip into our rooms, then out to the bathroom.
Hallways mumble at our passing.
I hear him walking
then we stand, spines aligned,
brushing our teeth at the sinks.

I am a line extending forever from one fixed point.
Ten feet up he is sleepy-eyed parallel.
We are railroad tracks, those curved and rusty ghosts.
The waters runs, falls silent, creaks on again.
Hinges squeak. We pace
a balanced minuet to sleep.

ii.

One night in the trainyard
He tries to tread the tarnished beam
but always tumbles back down.

We discover
that side by side with arms outstretched
like flimsy spring branches,
we can run.
His mitten locked around my fingertips,
fleetness is a matter of inches.
Our feet telegraph those two cold spines,
meters skimming by.

In that hand-held darkness, surefooted,
I suddenly believe in flight.

November Nights

November night
piled beneath old blankets,
cold close
enough to feel the stubble,
see summer creases on the skin.
We lay, legs colliding,
our arms curved like bird wings
around the others slow-fluttered ribs.

Each word is a jar
opened and spilled out:
coarse nutmeg, papery anise, cinnamon bark.
Each touch shudders: fennel seeds
spreading on the tongue.
We are bright with questions: cloves and broken glass.

Will lips touch those laugh lines?
What explanation is offered for the minutes
between now and dawn?
It is enough to have these phrases.

Morning comes open-mouthed
without words,
only soft thoughts
that crumble like walnuts
between the fingers of a moment:
waking up curled around one another's toes.