Wednesday

teeth crumble
in her mouth
white night folds
over on itself

cutting gravel
on her tongue
naked before the rain,
birdsong, the March

there is a time
to live
there is a time
to rest
there is

Whitman’s Hands

for Chris

There’s something about you that makes my heart hum
With what Whitman calls “life”
What Cummings calls puddle-wonder
and becoming “who you really are”

Something about your eyes, playing stars in your head
Or maybe your hands, rough and large
But it isn’t any Thing at all, really
My heart hums with you
Even if I try to ignore the hum, push it out
I can’t pass this stranger by, this knowing

This love
That does not burn, but rather builds up
That does not consume, but rather grows slow

Curls into the sun like peas, smells sweet like tomatoes
The poets were right: noticing is love
Anguish is love too, but much less full of hum

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

Poem for Seth

I’ve heard people say

writing about coffee

and cigarettes is not

romantic

definitely not

meaningful
.

still
.

all I can think about

is the cup right there

on the windowsill

with way too much milk

(I bought at Costco)
.

still
.

it makes me feel

better

knowing the Costco-milk-

coffee-tired-mug exists

so meaningless

that it gives me hope

More Than Us

inspired by the squirrels living in our ceiling

I have dreams about large animals
lounging in the rafters
smiling down at me with their kind eyes
lifting feathers with their sighs

the footsteps in my ceiling
they keep me up at night
I imagine they belong to gentle bears
or doves in quiet pairs

this house is home to more than us
but we’ll never see their glorious

asleep behind the table there
aglow with dreams of steadfast care
this house is home to more than u
s

I wake up to the dinosaurs
trudging through the yard
crying tears and tears and tears and tears and tears
surprised to end up here

polar bears and elephants
otters kissing lambs
I can hear their heartbeats pressed against the walls
I listen for their calls

this house is home to more than us
but we’ll never see their glorious

asleep behind the table there
aglow with dreams of steadfast care
this house is home to more than us