Certainly we had been up all night
filling our mouths with bread and cheese and cinnamon,
gargling with the stars.
And certainly we had made sure the stove was off,
the pilot light burning low
like a moon on the horizon.
But when our fingers touched
the fire alarm began to ring,
sprinklers sent the whole pajamed house
stumbling out to the sidewalk.
They stared incredulous at our
wild wakeful eyes.
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.
“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.
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.
I hope that someone was thinking of me
at the exact moment that I,
thrashing the centerline of the dark highway
between
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 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.
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.
