Young men in glazy unison
wreck over lipstick shoals

until last call's klaxons
lure a few to paddle back

& pony up for a last fist
of foaming heart.

I'm past my sailing days,
so I watch from hot shade

with germanium on/off eyes,
surrounded by ten brave

who said yes to an evening.
Leaving into the electric bower

under bud-sparked trees,
our heels are free of night,

everything is open,
& forty-five seems no great age.

I fill a prehistorically stained blue seat
as we pull left down Florida Avenue.

In a black pyramid of oversized shirt
a woman spreads gospel from hands

heavy with speaker cones, the chorus
warning all unmarried womens

to look out, look out for the devil.
A man two seats ahead stares out

into blurred spring-raised dusk,
shudders inwardly, cupped with fever -

the college girl who chanced herself
beside him fishes with a worried eye,

edges a thigh into silver aisle air.
Four kids without parents field

strange questions from an old drunk:
"You kids like watching cartoons?

You like them cartoons where pants
fall down and you see some ***?

I know I do" until the oldest brother
huddles them off the bus with a look

cold and hard as winter brick.
As I exit on Belmont, I pass a pair

of construction workers, hardhats
tied to belt loops, fallen asleep

shoulder to shoulder, lulled
by the soft hunt of April thunder

that rides across the slates above,
leading lonely names into the west.

Dear E----,

The bus crawls eastward like an insect:
silvery carapace and compound eyes,

broad-spotted blue-red with ads
as we scuttle along the curb-crumbs,

outpacing a decaying Tuesday sun.
In my thoracic seat I think of love,

its strangest colors and contours,
gentle treacheries and bridges burnt,

a wavering lawn of doubled sleep.
Tonight we dine on margaritas

in our cheap pub on the hill,
hope the questions all get answered,

touch feet under the table in secret.
I'm sure I wear at your patience

with this haircut I slashed myself,
my many stumbles of attention,

all my errors of cipher and code,
& the old hot luggage of my battles...

but you persevere. Look up -
the stars are champagne perlage

in a dark coupe, and all around
the living are dying; the dying are living.

~
Lipstick to void. She is a race against time. The beveled past a disruption in her lines of influence.

Travel is dangerous, and tonight it darkens the highway of blood vessels coursing through her extremities. She wants to be luminous and under the skin.

While Dorothy dreams of tornadoes in Kansas, she dreams of remote climbs in lesser Glasgow, of party drugs in Tokyo. How many lights does she see?

In her hair are sixty circuits. But she waits, religiously inclined on the hotel bed. She drove through ghosts to get here wearing nothing but Las Vegas.

So strange at this hour, in a city full of sleepwalkers for the taking, she now dreams she's a bulldozer, she now dreams she's alone in an empty field.
~

It’s the morning of another day
The woman gets dressed
Having finished her brief breakfast
She is going out

Dressed in her red coat and scarf
Ivory colored turtle neck sweater
Blue jean leggings
It’s winter at the end of January
Very cold outside
It gets into your bones
Makes them ache

She is heading out to the store
Afterwards she will stop for coffee at a favorite cafe
Before heading home

She is living her new life
With her high school sweetheart
An unbelievable dream come true

It is gently snowing. Large size white flakes very slowly. Looking like queen Anne’s lace. As you stand in the forest -- there are no sounds except a few birds in the trees. It is so quiet you can almost hear the snow fall. You are aware of your breathing which slows. You close your eyes to listen to the quiet and feel the stillness. You are one with nature.

Snowflakes gently touch your face but you are not cold. There is total peace.When you open your eyes, you see a doe looking at you. Still, quiet and peaceful. You don’t want to ever leave this moment.

the sound of rain on
a moving train makes me wish
the trip was longer

you're the summer months
I spent in Grandma's house — flowed
infinitely slow

made of soft mornings
humid noons, quiet evenings —
I dream of summer

summer is the call
cicadas hum and chirp to —
I answer, find me