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.

Not even the sun
reflected fully in the river's course.
Bit and spark,
it fought to frame
this solitary ray.

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.

You nipped my lip the first time. No skin broken open, but hearts were. Baseball caps and coffee breaths sent flying and ragged with possibility. Some mornings I still wish we had never left the sunroom. Or the alley. I miss the burns our walls gave us when two skinny kids pressed against them and into each other. You were my first great love.

Would I know passion so well without you?

You were my friend first. Though we both wanted more. And when more didn’t happen immediately, I assumed it never would. But you stayed or, at least, came back when I called. We never put up fences, so when we found ourselves on the other side it was better for being connected. But now, both fields have gone to seed. You were someone I could lean on who still made me feel like I stood on my own two feet.

Would I recognize support if it wasn’t for you?

We met just over the fence from my parents’ house. Our best friends fell for each other, so it seemed possible for us too. You came over the fence a year and a half later and met my parents. And held my nephew. You were late, but you wore real shoes. Charlie loved you. I did too. I loved that you saw a future with me--a house with a tree we planted and a family we made. That image will hang in the walls of my memory, reminding me I’m someone to see a future with.

Would I be even more stuck without you?

There were others in between. Their losses make me pause like trying to remember the beginning of a song as the melody plays on. But it is our anniversaries which take my day. At your graves, I have made my waiting rooms.
For too long, I have listened for a pulse. Too often, I have mistaken my heart beating for yours returning. Too quickly, I have seen our memories as signs of an impending resurrection. But you, too, have buried me.

I hope only that--should you visit my graveside--you think kindly of me too.

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!"

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.

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.

tides pull greens through blues
perpetual sunsetting
at the golden gate

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.

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.

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.

Forgiveness smells
like the first drops of rain
hitting hot cement.

Could it feel like steam released
when warm words pour
from cooler lips?

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.

the redhead
with matching pants
practiced violin beneath the bridge

moments away

behind the museum
the amphitheatre hummed
with the song of birds

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

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?

When I see pictures of where I’ve been,
it still feels like home in a way.
I think of entryways I have stopped entering
Still sparing a spot for my slippers.

We may be a place that I never go again
but in the negative spaces of this photograph,
you’re still mine
to claim as a home.

Sitting in the solitude of your chance-made garden,
you watch the wind
dancing the leaves
of the tallest trees.

In this moment,
the last thing you want
is for the streams to descend the lengthy limbs,
sliding ever closer
to your carefully set self.

But you and he
and them and the air
can never stay still
for long.

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?

They saw each other at a holiday party. She’d gone every year with her family, feeling more at home with the adults than in the den of popular peers occupying the pink bedroom. He was a regular on a different schedule. His father was a minister serving hope at the midnight mass, but not that year. So he, his brother who she knew better, and their parents basked in the champagne glow of the Christmas Eve court.

He was still in school. She was in her first capital-j Job. That night, he asked what she loved about it and she talked about pottery, the edges and effort that people put into everyday objects to bring beauty and meaning to the necessary. And he laughed and let her. They exchanged numbers. While he hunted in Texas, he sent a happy new year to her in Chicago. Her ex’s auld lang syne arrived first, but his meant more.

He came to New Orleans for the weekend to see his brother, but spent every wakeful hour with her. They walked and laughed, admiring the butts and brushwork on display at the park museum. When he walked her home at night, she tucked her hand in his elbow and he held it tight.

She got a job interview in Baton Rouge. They met at a coffeehouse after and he followed her to trivia. She moved to Baton Rouge to save money, to give a coworker a new place to live...and to be closer to him, though she wouldn't admit it yet. They had lunch on Valentine’s Day. She made brownies. He paid. No one called it a date. She got the job, put in her notice, and then the job fell away. But her family was there. He was there. A life could still be there for her.  So she went to more interviews and got another job. She got an apartment. They still didn’t go on dates.

She got a boyfriend and her first solo apartment. They talked less for a while. He disappeared into school, she into work. They resurfaced. They met for coffee and went on long walks around the lakes. She made a mistake one night. Not knowing what they could still mean, she left him at a bar and went home with someone else. He forgave her (she thought). They went on walks. He talked about wanting something more. She did too. She didn’t want to be nice, but she hoped she was kind. He made her feel like she was.

For her birthday, she had dinner with friends. He came. When the friends left, he walked her under the overpass to his favorite martini bar. They played at playing pool to a soundtrack of '90s hits. They held decaf in giddy hands and sat in the garden of their coffee shop trying to find stars above the streetlights. He walked her home. It wasn’t a date.

She went to Iceland with her best friend. He told her he’d pick her up. Her flight was delayed. And delayed. And delayed. Wandering the lengths of the Atlanta airport, she gave him an out. When her flight finally landed, her bag wasn’t in sight. And then it was. And he was there when she turned around. She fell into him. He hugged her, drove her home, and made sure there weren’t any monsters hiding under her sink.

He made her feel funny. She mentioned an open mic and let the weeks pass. He remembered the next one, drove her so she couldn’t chicken out, and made her feel like the best person of the night. He recorded her. He called her “the one. The only.”

She felt brighter around him. She liked how she seemed to tuck right into his warm chest when they hugged. They went for dinner and long walks.  They danced and laughed. Nobody called these nights dates.

One year, four months, and nineteen days had passed since they met in the warm glow of that winter evening. She had been offered a job she could care about. In Massachusetts. No one was more excited than he was. He graduated. They went out to celebrate each other, to drink, and to dance. A friend from the open mic asked what they were. Friends(?). The friend asked why. They didn’t know.

That night, he drove her home again. She didn’t get out of the car immediately. He asked.

Why didn’t we?
I was waiting on you..
Well, better late than never.

They kissed.

They both came home that night.

She can’t remember now if it was that night or the next morning, but he gave her a gift she still carries with her. A gift he had carried in his car’s trunk, not knowing how to give. An album she mentioned because it made her feel connected to the grandfather she couldn’t always remember and the father she couldn’t always understand.

They went on dates. For two weeks, they went on many dates.

And then she moved. Like they knew she would. And he thought about moving. And she thought about it too.

He got a job in Baton Rouge. They celebrated. She sent him silly socks. He sent her a blanket poncho.

She called him on her walks home. He woke her up with beautiful messages.

She helped him look for apartments, sending him craigslist ad after ad. He asked if they were places she'd want to spend the night. She couldn't stop smiling that day.

He visited her once. A hot weekend in July spent on the third floor of a New England house with every box fan angled to suit.

She got a job in Vermont.

He was her date to a wedding in their hometown. The flights were too early and she hadn’t planned well. She should’ve flown in the night before. She was exhausted. Not the person she wanted to be. He was ecstatic. She fell asleep with a baby in her lap, but woke up to kiss him good night. He pulled away.

At least, she thought he did.

They went to dinner with her friends before she left. Then they walked around the neighborhood at night. He pushed her on a swing.

She moved. He responded less.

She didn’t wake up to his messages anymore.

She got lonely and started downloading avenues to companionship.

She saw him holding hands with a hotdog in a friend's snapped story.

She deleted snapchat.

She knew he was pulling away. Pushing toward something new.

She clung.

She had never known what they were to each other, but nothing had never seemed possible.

In February, they went for coffee and walked around their lake. He didn't mention the hotdog. She didn't ask.

In April, he told her over a text. She called. He didn’t pick up.

He stopped picking up.

It’ll be three years tomorrow (the day after if you want to get technical) since they found better later.

It’s been over a year since she started considering the never.

She always offered more than she could give. He always gave more than she could offer. Perhaps she could finally give him exactly what he asked. Space.

The album will always have a place on her shelf, though it’s not displayed like it used to be.

She’ll always hope for his reply.

But these days, she thinks three times and doesn’t hit send.

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.

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.

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.”

rosemary wilts, my darling,
and so do memories
in stubborn wooden jagged scraps
and breathless little leaves.

“What’s the common denominator?”

A simply posed question bubbling from friendly lips. Mathematic in phrasing and hinting at an even-keeled logic, a levelness she wasn’t sure a present heart could possess. But then, isn’t cause always clearer when witnessed from effect?

What was the common denominator of her past partners? Her coterie of used-to-bes? Off-the-cuff, she had said she admired their noses. But hours later, as she lay on the carpet--though the bed was long-cleared of her friends and their coats--she remembered how she felt ever-so-slightly uncontrolled each time. A fall in the most achingly obvious of ways, stopped only by the catch in her throat.

Who was the first? The start of the be? The introduction to was?

It seemed an occurrence out of time, but then they all did in a way. A warm flannel-peaked castle on a dark November afternoon. Two future lieges playing at world-building. A sudden mash of lips--a marriage of nations--soundtracked by muffled mutant turtles. Then the bliss of childhood returned. That bliss bordered and bound her for thirteen years, routinely perforated by pop culture and muted midnight movies. After fourteen, it shattered. Broken like the night sky during a meteor shower.

Her lips still remembered--in lonely moments--the hook of his teeth catching her before she realized she had fallen. She didn’t know him then, but she didn’t claim to. His middle name was enough, mumbled as his head bowed and her eyes crossed trying to hold his smiling gaze in her sight. A secret to share. The first of many, she hoped…
Far too many, she now knew.

But that’s the problem with falling, isn’t it? Too often, you mistake it for flight.

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.

On a none-too-distant shore
bobbed the sun
moored like unvoiced hope
waiting for its chance to swim.

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.

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.

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.