Beer cans roll in the wind
On the roof of my apartment building
Sometimes I swear inanimate objects
Have ulterior motives

Whose lips ****** relaxation
Out of that can?
Whose hand crushed it into a crumpled wind instrument
And left it lying on the ground
When it had nothing left to give?

When, if ever, will the wind blow it down
From this rooftop onto the street below?
Then where will it go?

At age 19, we talked about how we’d change the world.
We spoke of revolutions, of leading the masses, of burning everything to the ground.

At age 20, we talked about how we’d make it in the world.
We spoke of Bachelor’s degrees, of political discourse, of graduate school.

At age 21, we talked about how we’d survive in the world.
We spoke of refinancing our car loan, of apartments with utilities included, of budgets and personal finance.

At age 40, we’ll talk about how we can’t change the world.
We’ll speak of groceries, of laundry, of parent teacher conferences.

And it will be too late.

Maybe at age 19, our children will change the world.

daylight dreams dive into nighttime oceans
hopeful heartbeats remain
pulsing through the fluid darkness of the room

I feel your breath trembling
painting my anticipation red gold and green

will I feel your warm cherrymouth
slowly climbing up my neck
up to the crescent of my ear
up to the wings of my lips?

I keep my eyes wide shut
and shiver -
feeling your humid running kiss
ascending to my lids

your silent passion
leaves me gasping blindly
for glittering sparkles of infinity

and I capture this moment
inside the memory of craving flesh
underneath every loony pore

nighttime oceans spill
into another sphere
and we both
disappear