clementines
scatter the counter,
bruised and browning,
a seedless deadline,
a citric clock,
some recent kid's
acid ambitions.

a minute ago,
maybe ten,
maybe twenty,
i remember being
unimpressed
by the star shape
in those bricks.

now,
no matter which leg
i stand on,
the tilt i try,
i can't see it anymore,
wonder where it's gone.

There's an overfilling
happening
somewhere next week,
kissing you.

Writing poems
about writing poems
about telephones
about missing home.

I got dusky dizzy
piano drunk
in the early evening's cooling,
in nina's sweaty cooing,
went giddy, mad, and growing.

I rolled around my porch awhile,
counting bricks and licking paint.

Over and over,
I kept thanking all the bugs.

Plummet heavy
through the clouds
or spread a little,
float around.
Pose or timbre,
chosen vow,
home or god
is always down.

I read a poem
about silence
aloud,
sat down,
held my breath,
wrote this.