There was a day
in spring
in my youth
when I learned
the vagaries
of passion and poetry;
the day his Irish lilt
wrapped around
‘80’s lyrics and Italian food
and I felt
a slow strangling
instead of joy.

There’s a reason
truth is always around the next bend

our eyes were made curvy
but see straight ahead best

we’re addicted to the turns
that guide our stride

it’s like unrolling a globe
on a table and sailing the four corners

it’s nice keeping up
with hipster mythology.

I came home and mixed some mayo with tuna.
It was good.
I walked the 70 feet to the mailbox mindfully.
It was a gift.
I swallowed errant love words else I lose myself.
I do not need twelve ingredients for a sandwich.
I do not need a paved road.
I still need simple touch.

I sat quietly, writing this for a few moments.
There was no boomerang.
I was safe.

avoiding sudden movements,
keeping to the wall,
heel-toe, heel-toe

past sins ricochet
and I am powerless to make it slow

her legs, his hands
and a world of mountains
and melting glaciers to track

she was his flower
and I am a well-thumbed paperback

Unshielded
for a mere breath,
I stopped chasing wind
and listened
to the song of trees,
their wild roots
reaching below
and their branches
singing above.

Despite attempts at walking softly,
I was always to be a knight,
armor in place, inevitably.