Blue plastic cows
munch green polyester grass
on a hillside next to a warm
pale blue farmhouse in Iowa
on a sweet Sunday last June.

You knew how to dance
in the barnyard under the roof
your father built last spring
when the sun was shining
through the clouds for once.

My feet stirred up months of dust
which got into your cornflower eyes
and turned your eyelashes brown
until I couldn't see you, just the
light shining from within.

The indigo Tuesday rain
painted streaks down your arms
as you harvested my heart
from among the tired wheat, ready to be carried off
into the flour mill, where it could get some rest.

But you left me standing there when
your father died on a Wednesday night
under a brilliant full moon after the kids had all gone home;
there was a rock at the bottom of my shoe.
The dream was never built to last.

In my perfect world
The grass beneath my feet, never changed
It did not become the sharp,
Brittle stems,
That injure me and then fracture
With each step I take.
In my perfect world
The sky which was blue above me, never changed
It did not Darken and,
Throw down rain
That chills me and cleans me
In my perfect world
The hand that wiped so many tears, never changed
It did not become the cruel fist,
Which struck me down
And changed me.

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

I have but one desire:
to see your soul bare.
'till I find the keys to your heart,
in your eyes I stare.
Other shadows of what is I see:
Your smile, your words, how you look at me.
But wait! I have misspoken,
I do want one more thing:
I want you to see me bare
that is my offering.
My light and yours can join,
new colours we make,
Like the northern lights:
magic, art, a new being we wake.

I am assuming from here on out
That there is nothing I can do
But laugh off your expectations.
The real world is seeping in
The cracks; Mediocrity is success.
It’s a strange thing to expect failure
And a stranger thing to stay
When disappointment is the status quo,
Because roses and parades and names in the clouds
Would end with a why-didn’t-you.
And roses would be the wrong color.
And the parade would be selfish.
And the name in the cloud should have included
A heart, not just letters.
Because, rote or not, if “I love you” isn’t echoed,
It’s not real.