Perhaps you’re made to be the perfect mirror for the sky:
An earthmade object of vanity, dazzling and bright.
I think it’d make me far more comfortable
If I could just see through all this reflected light.

You’re cold, sharp, and shallow at the edges,
Even though it’s half past July.
I must dance atop of your mossy stone
Then stop when a familiar dark shape slithers by.

And when I finally reach the point
Where I have to desperately flap my arms
Like freshly plucked chicken wings
Just to stay on top of your unbridled form,

You’re strong and steady
In rushing past me to the right,
Pulling me along
In a current that is difficult to fight.

All the while I am forced to think of what is beneath me,
What can fit in all your space between me and your mud covered ground?
A scaly hand of some lovecraftian horror reaching up, up!
And grasping my left ankle, and pulling me down, down, down.

For most of this year I dreamed of a picnic in the spring
Maybe we’d get out of the car during our lunch break for a change
It’s a shame all I can do now is practice making the food I’d bring
It’s hopeless now but I hope you don’t find the idea too strange

Maybe we’d get out of the car during our lunch break for a change
We could have sat under a blooming cherry tree this week
It’s hopeless now but I hope you don’t find the idea too strange
It’s unfortunate how much our daily life has changed

We could have sat under a blooming cherry tree this week
That’s better than listening to the news go on about unemployment and ill fate
It’s unfortunate how much our daily life has changed
Now all people can do is wait in miles long food bank lines and hope they’re not too late

For most of this year I dreamed of a picnic in the spring
It’s a shame all I can do now is practice making the food I’d bring
That’s better than listening to the news go one about unemployment and ill fate
Now all people can do is wait in miles long food bank lines and hope they’re not too late

A planned happening from the past
Set to be at a predetermined date
Two people would look up at the same thing
More than a thousand miles away

I, the romantic, and
You, the orchestrator
Set out in the chartered dark night
At different hours but still the same time

Frantic feet down stairs
Scuffling movements through sand
I open a creaky door with hasted hands
And we both look

Up

And above us both
Is a clear night sky
Lucky conditions yet
Not the right time

The moon
Sailed quietly
In another plot’s
Seeking eyes

A bird once flew
With a wing in two worlds
One followed a rigid path
And the other’s was less observable

This one path
While different in each world
Led to a face
Familiar, yet not quite discernible

One wing heard a song
And the other heard it repeated
Than again, again, again,
Until the bird heard a song that most pleased it

Sometime thereafter came a tumultuous sky
One wing shivered and the other simply denied
Then one wing fraught, soared away
And the other turned its head, choosing to stay

At most, one wing would suffer
The dreary rain
But all the while the whole bird sat
And listened to your song, remade

Warming my face
And my skin
To the extent
That all that
Heat can reach within

Long tendriled fingers
Reaching to the
Ground
Pulling out greens
And long stalks
Of brown

Birds chirp
And the sky weeps
As you come
To rise me
From my sleep

But no matter
The wonder you
Bring us today,
I am still
happy you’re
92.96 million
Miles away

last night you called
whispering past mistakes
hanging up before you blurt out a catastrophe
How numbered are the times you've listened to my own earthquakes

I think that life entails
a certain amount of self interest
And living for oneself
is a certain part of the human condition

So no matter how much the math department
Pleads and asks,
I will keep all three of their
Stolen calculators in my bag

And one time while cooking noodles
I broke three knobs on my friend’s kitchen stove
He found out and I joked that my crime should not be told
He listened when I said to blame another poor soul

And late at night I’ll put on the
Record player sometimes
Pick up my complaining cat and
Sway with her from side to side

Hold too tight
and seeking fingers squelch past fuzz skin.
The hand quickly retracts
to avoid contact with sticky organs.

The sweet syrup residue
will be licked from the tip of the thumb,
then once more from the ring finger
before peach blood drips to the floor.

Then it is washed away
using citrus dish soap and cold water.
The peach sits unfinished
upon the kitchen counter.

My father floated over a field of them once in a dream
He says it was a sign and instantly
I was undeniably tethered to a flower my mother had planted in the front garden that spring

Now they crawl up from the dirt every year
Leaves unfurling and thin bodies stretching rectilinear
I'll pause when walking by to envy their sturdy hulking frames
Hold their blooms in tender hands and repeat our names

Are they the message or am I
Was it a field of Lilies or iterations of me across time
Stout arms embracing the next for millions of miles
Parched throats opened upwards waiting for revival

When I pluck your head to display in a small vase on my window sill--
Is it your green shoulders that feel the pain at the neck?
Is it my bulging eyes that watch your wilting fight
to live but another day or two in the corner of my room?