I wonder about the man with roses
if he still get kisses at the parade.

And I wonder about the boy with best intentions
and the plans that he mislaid.

On a separate coast from each of them
I put carnations in a spare green vase.

I could paint such wonders for the next three years
or leave my hopes in a remembered place.

[This is the start
to another goodbye letter
that—if I ever actually finish—
I’ll certainly never send.

I haven’t stopped believing
that my heart
beats in rhythm
to the echo of yours
and every lover before.

That the places I leave
stay with me
hanging like a beech leaf in winter
yellow and holding
after a new bud forms.

So, yes, this may be a resignation
or the start of the means to another end.
But even when I couldn’t love you
you still let me have a friend.]

Dear California…

Above her door
sits a fox in blue shades of snow
made by a man she’d say she met twice.

Neither of them know
she'll take it when she goes
a moment of warmth carved clean in the ice.

dried tears may as well
be painted gold on a mourning face.
the acknowledgement of so many breaks.

the only way forward now is through.
mending made evident
in the tracks of a beautiful glue.

Lovebirds gravitate to the same perch
beneath the well-feathered branches
of old cypresses (cypressi?)
that too many years ago
were uprooted and planted
on this side of the hill.

Up the now-mirrored steps
two bodies lean
from a spot you'd swear
is halfway between
the waters you wander through
and the oceans you wonder for.

Measured to the centimeter,
a ruler still won't tell you
the toll these trips take
on the limbs sprouting up from the sand
grounding down to the land
reaching out only to end in another empty hand.

But still the lovebirds pause here
in the man-made wonder
that may as well be a wayside inn
for all the shelter it gives
to those on the journey
with only one end.

There is so much more sky
above the street i followed for years
from home to school.
Reflections of the changing blue
still caught in storm drains and roof tarps.
Staining the glass crowding the corners
where i used to catch up
to a yellow dog named Sam.
He was taken by sleep
and creaky hips
long before the wind
cracked the limbs of our trees.
A mottled brown cat
patterned like a lake
skipped by rocks in every direction
followed Sam with greater noise
and a harder peace.
The sun stays longer at their intersections now. 
Old growth never fully gave way.
But the wind took its leaves all the same.

At a beach on a coast
walking-distance
from my present home,
the wind cast rivulets
into the grains of sand.

In the shallow shadows,
I can see the gray
leading into yellow
Bleeding into its fellow.
Impossible to separate (or, at least, misleading).

So their togethered taupeness
will be sampled and classified
in a blue munsell book
with a breaking cover
I should've returned ages ago.

It's useful like this.
But did you know
a few pages away
you could find
the blue-green stain of my veins?

Why do I know this?
There are only so many ways,
after all, to fill the time
in the back of a truck in Georgia.
(Even fewer if you keep your seatbelt on.)

So chart my freckles next, darling.
Find a new slot and show me
how my skin
shares the same page as your own.
Just on a different row.

the scalloped skirts
of the biloba ballerinas
are furling while green
still paints the stems
of the stubborn soloists.

the maidenhair corps de ballet
flies from the wings
tutus golden to match the winter light.
curtains open on the new season.
the sidewalk audience stands

in ovation
and continues home.

Did you hear what I said?
So often/not yet.
But you responded all the same.
It seemed a better method
than to ignore and regret it.
What could've been if I'd known your name?
There's a chance you'll see me
another day. And we'll be
engaged in the new-old game
of predicting/amending.
We're better off listening.
But the thought of it's really quite lame.

tides pull greens through blues
perpetual sunsetting
at the golden gate

A rose-window seldom resembles a rose
And we're taught that's okay.
An allusion will suffice
Where an illusion fails

And either is better than the third near-homophone.
The Carmen Sandiego of it all.

For if we cannot have the real thing
It's more fitting to sketch the bones from memory
Than to chase the world round
And only find its thorns.

Anyone who has stood at a river long enough has felt change stir within.
Yes, the water is always moving.
Here, your mortal feet will never be caressed by the same stream twice.
It takes time for water flowing in one direction to flow again over you.
But in your travels, fortunate wanderer, you may happen again
upon the same drops in a different body.  

Can the same be said for trees?
Deciduous or not, all lose their leaves in time.
And can the leaf you admire today be seen again in your lifetime?
Not in the same form.
It falls, my dear,
past the bark to the waiting litter below.
sustaining again.
Becoming eventually.

In the meantime, our failing eyes
watch the tree react.
Big enough it is to draw our attention.
How many strikes can it sustain?
How many fires will it survive?
Countless, my darling.

For when it fears,
for when it just may cease to be,
it does not leave its potential unharvested grain,
but digs deeply.
Widely into the earth, the tree gives
to the network it has always been a part of.
Leaving, we know, enough of itself
to be found again.

There once was a city with too many rats
The townspeople gathered and brought out the cats.
Disappointed they were
In their best friends with fur
For the pets caught nothing but naps from their mats.

Several successive puddles
of cuddles
followed Susannah that day.

"Oh, dear Susannah!
It's hot in Havana.
But it's chilly right next to the Bay."

To the near puddles
Susie kindly rebuttals,
"What a silly true thing to say!

If the weather was wetter,
could you carry a sweater?
For tomorrow's much worse than today!"

We are all matter 
particles and dust
echoed in objects existing distances
we're still learning to fathom away.

So take comfort, darling.
There is as much light inside of you as there is without.

But what of fault, dear Brutus?
If it is within us,
does it remain so in our stars?
Or are they, indeed, made of that sterner stuff?

There once was a ******* an old ship.
Blue skies and waves were her catnip.
Put wind in her sails.
She'll fill up the pails
And hope that the seals stop the drip-drip.

cool cats warm pizza
in-alley dining tonight
covid dinner out

Good evening, all!
Friendly reminder that--unless called upon--
we ask all spirits to remain on mute.
The connection can be a little spotty,
but we want to see all we can as the veil thins,
so please keep your third eye open
until it’s your time to commune.
Thank you again for attending this evening of digital divination.

Oh, and feel free to put your deepest, darkest questions in the chat box.
The moderator/medium will address them in turn.

blindly finding honey locusts
still blessedly bred with thorns.

climbing to new heights
just to keep a proper distance.

appreciating the red of a leaf
stuck low to damp cement
as higher winds chap your own chin red.

pressing a flower in the fold
of a note not sent
giving each another chance at purpose.

November never meant much to me before last year.
Shorter days, sure. Knit sweaters and a holiday or two.
But last November brought beginning to an end we didn't see coming.
A reminder that goodbyes are never guaranteed.
Last sentences aren’t always the final word on a relationship.
And holy moments exist in the darkest of places.

November never meant much to me before last year.
The night we knew you were leaving, I bought a holiday cactus
with small pink blooms from a misty shopside on my walk home.
Its blooms came back last week, brave in their abundance.
It’ll celebrate a year alive soon.
Your newest great-grand will celebrate seven months.

November never meant much to me before last year.
Each month since has brought joy
and loss and wonder that still feels shared.
The rains are coming back this week.
The mists returning and you, having never truly left,
give this November a chance to mean much and more again.

on a cool autumn night as the world changed,
she took a moment
to savor what her hands held.
The lamps were too far away
and above from her chosen perch
to give color to the lawn
as she pressed her palms
deeper on the exhale
into the slick, uneven tresses around her.
Offshoots and roots
braided into thick plaits along
the hill’s dark cheek,
holding its form,
brushing its peak,
framing the earthen face.
If anything living
has earned the name lock,
it's surely a runner of grass.

Down the hill,
where the sun had seen hundreds gather,
a table with a radio,
two lanterns,
and three shadows remained.  

Up a-ways,
under the few real stars the city had to offer,
the foursome sat at the edge
of the gravel and grass
and listened.

Hearing words millions hoped for,
fraught for, rocked votes for.
And in the pauses remembered
the promise of battles long since started
yet long to be fought.

at the turn of the caravan
as the cars carried on
L stood.
His black bike at the side.
His Black fist in the air.

He stood.
until he sat.
so I sat.
He told me his name.  

“I have tried to live
My life in such a way
that I love everyone.
and it’s just so nice…
to feel it reflected back.”

“I’m sorry.”
“You’re good.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re good.”

socks worn through
are ****** or darned
rarely at the same time.

people worn through
are darned or ******
and far too often both.

at some point, not so terribly long ago,
you liked dangerously strong coffee,
sleepytime tea before bed,
and me.

snapped fingers from a wrist
bent behind your back
while the funk worked its way
to your feet.

tattooed a state
you hadn't known
in a decade on your thigh
because it was where you were from.

laughed like an alarm clock
sounding in a dream
from nowhere, jarring,
and instantly recognizable.

and tucked my hand
into your elbow's crook
to chafe my chilly fingers
while you walked me home.

to be frank,
I know nearly nothing about you today.
but we'll always have
those little things.

long-distance calls from the porch steps
in somerville waiting
as this homophonous season
departs wanting to stay
on the hook with
you so very far from sure.

dear baristas who read auden
float their crooked hearts in foam
for you to carry, crooked neighbor,
on the ways there and back to home.

we had
for so long
this night-time
parking-lot
shouldn't-we-regret-this
love.

these days
we've got
a coffee ***
keep it hot
are-you-going-to-drink-that
love?