I laugh because he has half a mind
to think I would be cool with what he says,
about bridges and waterways and other
cool stuff like that. Today we went out to
brunch, and it made me think of Florence
on the Food Channel, making tea and scones
and cutting big pieces of cheddar. What once
was lost was never found, but other things
were found indeed, we replaced the lost
telekinesis, and broke up the sod with a hoe
and rake. The garden was soon going to be
ready, and my chef made olives and peanuts
from scratch, I guess they were from the market,
El Sol, on Broadway Street, where I used to
hang out as a teenager, asking people for money
while I sang-old songs, mind you, but they were
still sweet, as sweet as they could be, and I saw
old married couples walking hand in hand,
and singing, and a brisk puppy walking down
the sidewalk, a man holding on to his leash
with his head up high, looking straight, nor right
nor left. Some days are better than others.
A Summer Rain.
The rain smells of wet dew.
I am quiet with realization.
The sadness is in the cold, wet grass.
I have found my vision.
We can relate to the things of this world-
and the next, and the next.
Speed comes with thinking. I don't think without
feeling. He comes in the night, wearing a
dark parka. He feels me in the cool dawn.
The summer rain splatters on the ground.
It makes a soft, sweet sound.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
I think things have gone from here.
Take me or leave me, I wouldn't know.
There is a space in my arms below.
How high can I fly, these words sing to me.
I am embarrassed by hope, set on by fear.
Take me as I am, leave the rest behind you-or near.
A summer rain falls down, down.
Winding Down the Hours.
Like open doorways, I mix and mingle, I drive soiled tears
Through linen sheets. Peace is not with me; a heart is not open,
I quietly rekindle my tears, the heartache beats steady.
I wish I could bring myself out of this stupor, but nothing
Will relinquish this pain that is held on me, when my heart beats
Steadily, the thrum thrum of my heart. Who am I.
Shadows are thrown on open doorways; daylight moves in through
The open window, where a flower has fallen on a cold moaning
Of wind. This life is not forbidden, this love is not forbidden,
Nor is my heart, it beats like shadows and rivers,
Words are tossed into open wounds.
Clouds move and shift;
Secrets plummet into the world like warbled voices,
Caught in an updraft of makeshift promise. I do not know how
To say this, do not know how to speak the words that claw
Inside my chest, to say the things that must be spoken.
There is only the window, and the flower on the sill-
The darkness that thrums, and a cold winter chill.