Maybe, this thing does not matter.
It feels like a current,
But maybe it’s just another stream
with the promise of leading to the sea
when it’s truly
just heading for a lake.

Maybe, I can watch the ducks paddle over the water
and the twigs float on by.
It could be that this is how you learn,
that your gut doesn’t have eyes.

But it could also be how you learn
that there are some things
no eyes can see.

Whether it be
for the worsening or for the bettering
you are floating down this river
an island in the water
it’s viscosity carrying
you, with your hands
at the side of your hips


where you’ll end up
grace cannot be too far
when you follow the flow
who knows where you’ll end up
maybe next to those ducks
or in the vast open sea

The bird songs ring out harmonious
Their calls for some wanton *******,
The best type.
Reciprocated across the landscape
Which is not the right word
There’s more sea here than land.
an orange hangs low in the lonely sky
Perfectly ripe,
Dripping wet with honeyed shades of gold,
Coating palm trees and my knees.
Also my cigarette box and my coffee mug. A slow swell pitching and yawing,  
a side to side appreciated only by those trying to sleep.
A breeze lazier than I licks my cheeks and fondles my thighs.
It’s time, to go.

Photos from five years ago
I captioned them
"My yard is blooming!"
And it was
bursting
with pastel purple irises, cheerful snow *****, and cunning wisteria

Photos taken the second month
we lived on the island.

I love Baltimore, my city.
I don't want to move
but I miss this place
and the place before that.

And there are so many places
to see
to live.

Happening onto this set of photos
and my stomach twists--
to be there again
with the smell of *****
steaming at the little shop across the street
with the marsh grasses swaying
and the peepers starting their evening chants.
Is my neighbor still out there working on his truck
or selling tomatoes at that flimsy wooden table?

At 30-ish, I already find myself missing
about four different places and sets of people
How many places will I have to miss at 40--
at 80--if I should be so lucky?

Pieces of my heart and stomach
are scattered across this little patch of East Coast and Appalachia.

How many times can they be divided?
No, not divided.
They're multiplying.

I sail through the ocean
Of love to reach you.
At last I left alone in the
Island of love alone as it is
Without knowing the way to
Get out from 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.