My girl is the softest planet
and I am unsure, but she says
the gaseous rings are clinging
tight to her knuckles and it is
after midnight when she finally
exhales and the room turns pink
and bright with starlight

On absent Tuesdays, and only those
of even number, we sit on docks
and watch the city float by
on cumulonimbus and pouring
and hail tie-dying the whites on our shirts
and blue eyes gray in stony reflection

Purple tangle watches, thorny stems
on a chase through the downtown streets
after falling for and off of you
under creaks of a lifting bridge

In the morning, rays and grays
peek through dark curtains and
I can hear the rain dance on
double pane I can hear some breath
measured and wanting I can hear
a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh
and fingers tracing cartography on
fading maps of Western Europe.

I like to hold the secrets of your past
close against my chest like bouquets
of dried flowers, crumbling in time
and dotted with sweat from
fever dreams, I watch you
sick and typing and moving
away from where I stand fast
and with increasing frequency.

It's only in magic that we
ride bikes, wet leaves caught
under fenders along a river
side by side in shadows
of a lifting bridge.

these old books and all those boys
tripping on squeaking baby toys
your mother's last apartment floor creaking
under seven or eight count teenage weight
spilling boxes of recorders and claves
from the highest shelf and a xylophone
crashing onto solid oak table
spilling the last standing mug of tea
steaming, staining, spitting varnish
resolving to small puddles
in the divets on the table

What time is it?
We should be fine,
on time in Nashville.
Muted colors and eyes
heavy, wander in
blind monotone, sing
to waving adolescents.

The light turns orange
with age before brightening
morning sky, the flood
on the tarmac transitions
to scattered blue as seconds
creep closer to the dawn.

Arched window voice in
rolling fields with fences
cry out like grass seed sneezes
from rainy Octobers and Julys.

Six pregnant cigarettes later
a mint julep poured and tasted
fingers licked while lips drunk sting
and sweat beads and rolls on upper lip.

A lean on outdoor table with
feet raised on outdoor chair and
grass greener than the impressionists
while the sevens and eights dance
with awkward hair and chocolate stains
a look from picture window
and ribeye steak and butter in the pan.

Fish and gills in the air and salt
drops on tiny blue eyeballs
so squints make their way gracefully
into every last family portrait.

I've never thought less of you
than in begging moment, flipped
on smooth river rocks, arms wide
on expanded hips, smile
fake and expectant.

You paddle kayaks in
awkward plaids and throwaway
sweaters, grinning sweetly
at dimples and polished toenails
and forgetting my name
while I repeat yours in echo.

On tall bicycle, you look down
at tear-strewn carpet, at
lingering rain, and you lean
to one side, precarious balance
while the sun peeks through the blinds.

There are three or four
seconds between the
clicks of broken crankset
on the latest nights laced
with adjacent luminosities
and surreptitious glances
and back of hand touch.

Late lake lit low on warm
weekend afternoons with
goosebump breeze and
words on platforms and
palms that touch hips
and waists and fingers
traversing the length
of narrowing distance.

Notice the breathing and
furrowed brows, a focus
on sandcastles and houses
made of cards, the biggest
problems are no more easily
solved by forgetting arched
backs, sharp breaths, toes
tingling, contented collapse.

Some sunshine mornings
yield just the right few
moments when arms and
legs entangle and you
bring your lips to mine.