I just want
and then the summer
to follow shortly after
because I need the sun
to thaw the cold in my bones.
I used to think that the rainy
days were when I’d feel my best -
but in all truth, I just need the warmth.
In other words: warm me with your love;
the best sun of them all.
"the free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it - basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them."
I found a few places in Minneapolis where I could possibly submit some of my work for publishing.
But, like… should I start working on new projects or should I submit a poem I’ve already written?
"When I knocked the coffee cup
from its ledge, and it broke
into the shower, surrounding
my feet with sharp pottery
slipping along in the currents,
I felt the way
I’m always breaking
something, a hand-thrown
mug, a path, a promise.
This life requires a map
I can’t find, a gentleness
I can’t feel, a surety I know
only in these edges that keep me
from stepping on a mess
of my own making.
Such a gift
we have in the consent of others,
the minutes they give
us, I offer
no refund, only lie quiet
in the whole of it, saying,
don’t believe I think I know,
only see me now, bending
to pick up what is too small.
Don’t walk too close, unless
you are willing to mix
your blood with mine."
"You don’t know it yet but what you’ll miss
is the books, heavy and fragrant and frayed,
the pages greasy, almost transparent, thinned
at the edges by hundreds of licked thumbs.
What you’ll remember is the dumb joy
of stumbling across a passage so perfect
it drums in your head, drowns out
the teacher and the lunch bell’s ring. You’ve stolen
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from the library.
Lingering on the steps, you dig into your bag
to touch its heat: stolen goods, willfully taken,
in full knowledge of right and wrong.
You call yourself a thief. There are worse things,
you think, fingering the cover, tracing
the embossed letters like someone blind.
This is all you need as you take your first step
toward the street, joining characters whose lives
might unfold at your touch. You follow them into
the blur of the world. Into whoever you’re going to be."
Let’s kiss. Let refrain do what it does. From touching,
how skin withstands toxins, organs glued. I love holding you.
Orchestrating the drive down Occidental Blvd, we’re accident in future tense.
Pigeons make a standstill. Coffee stains upholstery. At intersections,
fever is a combination of fear and hot pavement.
Let kiss and chemicals and cannibals and feathers. Unsnap. Unwhip.
Hinging on: how could you? Warp the mouth around open-ended swallows—
birds, I mean. Stay long enough. Let’s happen."
Do what you’re going to.
"Cold coffee ringing a mug
and a bill, forgotten, beside it: this
could be the beginning of morning—this
could be the end; these are some things
that confuse: the leaving you now—warm
under quilts, rhythm of your sleeping as light
as the mist as easy as sunrise; and it’s not
that I can’t be there, beside you, tonight,
it’s more this persistence of gravity—it attracts you:
the sag of the clothesline at the edge of its use,
the leaves on the maple near the end of October—
it’s someone else, not you, that I find in the yard,
scattered on the porch, clinging to the dog
as your flooding heart brims & puddles
the chipped cement below your head—
should we call this a state of abundance,
something overwhelming; this untenable frequency
between need & desire: how in fall, we bumper
the parkways embracing the trees at the arc
of their triumph; how when they’re stripped naked, raw
& open, we’re wintered away while the sky
outside is bright & clear."