POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped
I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place