Outside

Firework gun-pocks

We lay inside on your

Mattress touching

In silence entwined

Entropic entangled

I wanted to hold those

Distant bursts of light in

The palm of my hand

Press them together so here

We could explode

Green and gold

No watchers

Pulp and Circumstance

Summer arrived. What

I wanted more

than anything was

lemonade. Hands grinding

halved fruit onto

that vaulted star,

I wrung a 

cup for you

before your flight.

Left behind was

sticky pulp, stink

on my fingers,

and rind beneath

my nails. Mixing

unequal parts simple

syrup and citrus,

I added sugar

to taste, desperate

not to erase

your bitter tang.

"September Night, Hackney"

What happened that night

we met Simon at the hookah bar?

Brick Lane wound like a haze

through to Hackney -

bottles of beer out back,

cool air and the dangling

Distant sound of voices

floating into cricket skies

Waking up to your glare,

to dry smooth skin,

London was a new fruit

I bit into with relish

reduced to a memory

now of the sweet taste

of Dr. Strangelove at 5 A.M.

and the dull ache of wanting it to end

"Alone Together"

The night we were alone together

We asked the moon to break the bread;

The two of us yapped, as black as dogs.

I couldn't find the words to tell you:

Talking is feeling for the emotionally inept.

I never liked your damned moon,

Its error driving men to howling

And shining through window blind slats.

You lay there painted like a zebra poised 

For prison, its very crime its ostentation.

We crossed the bridge we burnt behind us;

Look back and even songs won't save us.

Take my hand; don't speak.

Listen for the scraping of tinder:

The sound we make burning together.

"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.