With so many
   stars
    in the sky to
pluck,
I'd surely
leave
outer-space
blue

So
I'll pick a
blooming flower,
instead,
&
name it
after
   you

People've always
called me a
bird,
but I don't sing
for song's sake
or inspire

I go south
for the
summer, predictably
human
   and instinctively
drawn to
fire

I've never been so in
love
or so angry
that I want to burn my
tongue
to remember
coffee with
you.

When I was
a kid,
I'd lie out on
the broken
deck,
never afraid
I might fall
in
with
the
rotting
boards,
but scared
instead the
Big
Dipper had
moved from where
she lied the
summer
  before.

I paint so
little wooden
fences
and
fleeting cups of
coffee
between
lovers last
forever

When I look down
from a plane
and see the
foamy white
of day-clouds, &
imagine if
the birds can
hear me here,
I imagine this
thing
and another-
where you're
beneath these
patterns
and where I'm above
the sky
is there a sort
of way like a
cloud,
that I have no
perceived
beginning or an
ending?

A bee
floats over a
blossom
and his wings
are one
with vision

living seems
so easy
when the hardest
parts are
hidden.