Semi

I often disappoint myself,
though half-reckoning is
a wreck in the making.

Insensitive interstate a
random number generator,
impartial to chaos. This rush

hour pileup from heart
to mouth. I say I love you
like it is always summer,

but today marks fall. Why this
world spun me into Pittsburgh
eludes me. This is not a yearning

for old light, coated in cinnamon.
I laid my head on your chest
and the rest happened like history.

(originally published in Adelaide Literary Journal Anthology, Spring 2021)

Scenery

My roommate takes me
for a walk, or she takes the dog
for a walk. It doesn’t matter.
It’s the second night

we’ve walked each other,
or the dog walked us,
sore throat, brainy fog,
and this time can’t even find

the moon, obscured by houses.
We look anyway, together,
comparing bloom to doubt,
how one is sure, the other

grows, and leaves
crunch beneath as the dog
stops our walking
to pee, to leave another

thing behind. On Sunday
I watched the Niagara dump millions
of gallons into itself, mist rising
into something, nothing. The moon

loomed huge over the bridge
to America towing sunset’s lavender
bed but you can watch a thing die
before your eyes, or not at all–

the way, driving back from Canada
in heavy traffic, I tapped you
on the shoulder on the sky bridge
and said, look, here’s something,

one thing beautiful left, look,
and took the world’s last magnificent,
proffered blue and there, as a passenger,
you refused.

 

(originally published in The Knicknackery, 2018)