"Geographic Tongue"

My geographic tongue,
Migratory glossitis, they call it,
Provides me a map
To search for you.
You were predestined,
A recurring X
Marking the spot
Of a continent lost
Every seven to ten days
And replaced anew
By fresh formations.

What a strange tongue.
Even my oceans are impermanent.
You could sail over the edge
As Columbus feared,
Disproving manifest destiny
All the while.
Still, you'd reappear
Like a ship out of fog,
Horns blaring,
And I would cast your anchor
Until the week is out.

“Eclipse”

I hold up a mirror,
But only shallow breathing comes.
A cross country trip
Could only have widened the distance
Between you
And your shadow, no?
What would he have done
You in California,
He ever wider in your wake?
Though time was caught,
He's closer to your feet,
Closer to his black intent.

Aren't we always chasing selves
In rental cars?
Maybe you can still catch
That racer on the hill,
Those boys who used to yell
Go, Lance, Go on sunnier days.
You waved back over a shoulder;
Your shadow cannot wave.
He knows only the drip drip
And the steady hum and beep
And days that forget you one by one,
Edges glowing, nearing eclipse.

"Under Attack"

Your marriage is under attack.
Or maybe you didn’t know
Pansies with baby bulbs
Are on the move
Batten your hatches
Even the backyard garden
Is a battlefield
And even the most potent
Poppies have proven ineffective
At soothing what ails
An overgrown weed,
Also known as
Homoseximus maximus
Also known as
A Chelsea flytrap.

Perhaps it's all just a plot,
And a careful manicure
Will leave your marriage bed
Of flowers alone to bloom.
Or perhaps I'm being overoptimistic
And all you can hope for
Is a garden of weeds
Growing taller and wilder
And more unkempt
Until flowers
And weeds
Entwine to make
A perfect garden.
More perfect than our garden
In the beginning.

"Decomposition Composition"

I hope this letter reaches you.
I gave it to a worm,
Whispered instructions
Only it, the smallest worm, could understand:
Tunnel 90 miles west, I told it.
Burrow deep into the soil
So this letter picks up wisdom
From the earth and bones
And sticks and stones.
When finally you crawl back
To green grass and purple skies,
Find the boy with blue eyes
Who will sing even you,
The smallest worm, a song.

If indeed this note has reached you,
I hope your eyes are still blue,
That you still sing to worms,
That you remember the song
Our hands played together
Like harps nimbly plucked
Or toe shoes dancing on marimbas.
I hope you remember it all
Like the dirt remembers
Our bodies when we’re gone,
Remembers our song,
And breathes it into new life
Like an aria sweet and urgent.
Time is a diva.

If you find this letter in error,
Please return it to my worm.
Bend down to whisper instructions
Only it, the smallest worm, can understand:
Tell it to tunnel 90 miles east,
Burrow deep into the soil
So this letter picks up wisdom
From the humus and root
And gravel and soot.
When finally it crawls back
To green grass and purple skies,
It will find me listening underground
For a song from you
And preparing to be sung myself.