can we forget about measurements,
be seahorses as they say good morning,
morphing beasts playing with a universe
or maybe just driving through Montana

let’s follow the sun through the city
and along the edge of the valley
until we reach the edge of fiction
where all the truths blur into One

I love you, I whisper over and over
and a face pools out of clouds
and a storm fills the body
as we dance across a prairie

Something resembling
the old bus station
with little TVs on the chairs
and a headline warning
about too much zen behavior
(or maybe it was the opposite;
reading upside down is funny).
Lots of yellow and orange
and a speckled floor. Blue signs
mimicking a forgotten sky.
Busy feet criss-crossing to nowhere.
I thought by middle age
I would be more purposeful,
know where to go.
But a lack of direction and no sense
of place finds me stuck in the terminal,
switching channels now and again,
clinging to little flickers of movement.

He wooed her with kisses,
words of perversion, and looks of warmth.
He held her aloft and would not relent
in his optimism.
Her thoughts were of meadows and
dark alleys, each with its own terrors
and comforts.
She said, “love is a renewable resource”
when they declared their feelings,
sure he would understand
the concept of her eternity
in a world full of temporary tattoos
and drive-through funerals.
He said he loved her too, more than
rain or sun or any weather phenomenon.
True love is like that. Force beyond nature.
After the storm, tread lightly
for there are always traces
of something left behind.

She could barely look at herself.
A weight seemed to be pulling
on her eyes and smile,
heavy nimbus clouds on her face.
I know that feeling – it looks like
disappointment and uncertainty.
Clouds that may or may not break.

You grab an umbrella on a sunny day
and wonder: is it possible to stay safe
in the upcoming storm? Will it even storm?

What is to become of us if crumbling
crevasses outweigh smiling places?

The weight does not often get lighter
so much as becomes mobile; like pushing
hell in front of you -on wobbly wheels.
I do not say that aloud though, just smile
while I still can as I nod and hear birds
chattering as a thunderstorm rolls in.