Neglectful birds become red clumps of feather on the highway,
bodies bribed into forgetting danger.
The dive begins
At the end of the day you're lucky to end up an aching heap of joints and mumbles.
We're like two lost marbles symbolizing the mind gone mad.
Are we still bookends if there are no pages to be bookended?
I need to have us bleed stories in between
& have a little breath making spaces in the salty air.
My footprints are yearning for meaning
heels coming awake all pins and needles.
Sometimes being with you is like that
pangs tingle like the fourth of July hot in my chest
chambers pumping blood like flaming arrows
the veins come untangled and
(almost) too fast
my heart comes awake to you.
Just outside summer is cracking up the sidewalks.
Loud green fingers
tickles though the rubble.
Beneath the stoic patches of asphalt
"We'll get there!"
Now the story is not about eventuallies
This is about in the in between pushing up
green every day
making known the summer on your tongue.
Because being with you
my sweet & hungry summerling,
being with you is canaries waking up in my rib cage.
Up on the Hill they are pulling down the posters
using backward hammars.
The telephone poles have grown thick,
six inches before peeling down to tar,
strips of color
paled pastel pile up like half-hearted confetti.
Leftover shows crowd the sidewalk
higher than Seattle snow ever deigns to fall.
bent away from the sun
you can see the heat in the air.
Summer weighed down cloudy
& hot like a runners breath.
I saw him
sharp hat and tan suspenders
and he pointed me into a giggling coincidence.
"I wish I could take a picture."