When the sweetness
of his smile tastes like
unwanted pepper
upon a perfect egg face
and the only stirring
is of a breezy skirt
as she leaves,
this is what worry
can look like
in a spoon.

Pennsylvania snapshot

Tonight smells of charred
meat -juicy on the inside-
with a healthy whiff of
diesel and cigar and gardenia
along with fresh mown hay
and a nearby possum that didn’t make it
several days ago;

the magic of dusk mingles
with decay and lush greenery
to make an olifactoral postcard.

Second thoughts for the albatross

The day began with a hero
saving an albatross in the weeds.

She was a prodigy
of predicting end-times,
though thunderstorms were always a surprise.

Before the days of needing forgiveness,
she danced in the grass
near powerful men
sitting in lawn chairs,
balancing cups on knees
and cigars between teeth,
planning the world
like a beautiful mushrooming explosion.

She vowed to ask the next albatross
where it was going before saving it.

Summer at a burled table

 
He gently read her poems aloud
while mosquitoes made figure eights
and the river slowed to hear.

The smell of lighter fluid
made the path feel like a time machine
with salty air, curses, and Italian ice.

She listened to what wasn’t said
through his gestures and rustling leaves
like love words in smoldering charcoal.

Only when awake

There are dreams
nobody will ever know,
regarding cinnamon
and roses and toasty hands
in places of comfort,
of hidden crowds listening,
of a place where time
is a relic and love is like water,
where flight hurts
like winning.