I don’t believe a word you say. The stairs
separate us because you’re on another
level. Gravity is what pulls us together.
& absence of death. You talk in spirals.
I want to follow. A wind-up rotor wheels
his way back. Intransient movement.
I believe in higher planes
when looking to the sky in airports.
(originally published in The Stray Branch, Spring 2018)
in front of the mirror wondering
how you made it through those nine months
to get nothing but condensation from a cloud
yes the smiles returned in the desert
when the scythe allowed we spoke truths
and asked everyone to provide thirst
because we were the cacti with reservoirs
of lust and destruction
laid out in desiccate flowerbeds
our wallets filled with zinnias
while we were filled
from the green of living
sometimes we are horses
galloping along dirt paths
and westbound highways
hoping they lead to ocean
but it leads always to night
we barely know how to be raw anymore
how to sink dead teeth into apples
and want the core
our thin gums only cling to our mouths
because there’s nowhere else to call home
no more words that can make you
believe in a future
(originally published in Picaroon Poetry, Summer 2016)
Waiting for a spade, or any jack, really.
The pool is deep in the shallow end.
Waxy chlorine splashes your baby oil eyes.
The sun lies between the tanlines on our skin
which make us ever chameleons. Not that we shift,
but we eat where we are wanted.
I give you the iPod touch with the black fungus.
You twirl your index finger.
Then we leave. The window cranks open.
(originally published in Little River – Issue 4)