Laying low and waiting
in the grass, see the sky.
Light above is grating,
caught, perfect, in your eye.
How the moon guides you by
its untroubled movements.
Pristine, untouched, how thy
hand makes no improvements.

With the spear you’re weighting,
once again you will try
in the dirt translating
(caught, perfect, in your eye)
that unbroken line. Lie
that your own amusements
could hold that light. Each sly
hand makes no improvements.

While you stand hesitating,
I place your hand on mine.
“Look,” I say, “duplicating,
caught. Perfect, in your eye,
the moon reflected, spy.
Despite the light’s influence,
to your beauty, his high
hand makes no improvements.”

In vain we satisfy
our heart with our reply.
All of us are truants--
all of nature’s students.

I love the Summer for its light,
and the Spring for the light that is coming,
and the Fall for the last vestiges of it that hang on
like spiderwebs tying the night to the day.

I love the Summer for its light,
and the Winter for its darkness.
But as the season wanes and marches on,
I wish the light would stay.

How can we stand here,
among these most melancholy of shadows,
with the warm wind at our window?
How can we not say,
"I love the night but dream of the day."

I miss the person who I used to be.
Neither tender nor fierce,
simply existing,
not afraid to contemplate the future as either a hopeful place
or a somber one.

Now we are here together in that future,
but that younger self has hidden, afraid,
in the dark corners of my heart.

The last rays of the sun are touching the third floor of the buildings.
Same color as the clouds.
For as long as I look at it, it will stay there,
perfect and frozen and beautiful.
The moment I look away it will be gone.

If only I could hold this last light in my hands,
like a cup to keep me warm,
like a bowl that brims over.

Peek through the blinds again tomorrow, love.
I'll still be here.

as the birds fly south for winter
the excavators come home to roost.
they bow their heads to the ground,
wishing for wings to tuck their necks under.
everyone guards piles of salt and twisted metal
brushed cold and golden by the sun.
a boat lifts its arms to the sky,
all rattling chains and gentle, grasping claws.
gentlemen, best prices for scrap here:
all metals, all amounts.
the highway crawls home.

This January, fog slips thick fingers through the hair of the trees,
wrapping them in blankets against the cold and against the sun.
Streetlamps and headlights make halos
of red, yellow, green, white,
carving slices into the air,
the same at three as they are at six as they are at nine as they are at--

And something whispers to me that elsewhere there is snow.
It’s only getting warmer.
It’s only getting warmer.

I want to be skinny and sexless,
to lay around in sleeping bags under the stars
with friends and maybe lovers
to feel the comfort of skin
and the ear tickling of dreamy nonsense words
of plans and ambitions and dreams and loves.

I want to be skinny and sexless,
to waste my youth- idle- with thoughts that lead
nowhere but to other young holding hands-
fingers, long hair, short hair, scissors.

I want to be skinny and sexless,
with the romanticized and stigmatized idea of
children gone wild-
skateboards and swimming pools and
hot red blood and money burning holes
not in pockets but in hands
and broken bottles and brown paper bags.

I want to be skinny and sexless,
to write poetry and half romantic letters
that swear with my whole heart
"I hope I die before I hit thirty."