Uphill grinning
spinning webbed-breaths under
Spring's spilling through
rows of roses, tied behind
vines that could rip anyone red
are all the
quiet notes about pretty

& what a Sunday for sailing
blossoms through drying hair and
fickle feelings about an old poem
on a blanket, how fitting

but i'm trying;
i still find rhymes under
fir trees and still get
tired from laughing

i still ask why without crying
denying only while smiling.
this is 29 in a wine glass

stretching the afternoon like my
legs in the morning
pouring out yesterday's moaning
& sure as every bird i'll be
a blinking throat
counting her money

but for now i'm just
two hands
taking an orange home
for it's honey