pretending
the beautifully
decorated
mushroom
is meant
for me
I whisper
to a pinecone
“do you see that?”
Odd Angle
A dozen gestures
of his eyebrows and hands
working in concert
with a cool and detached tone,
drawing me in with science;
more lines on his forehead
making exceptions to standards
he sets but ignores
– and I’ve memorized each one.
Learning is an accidental affair.
Too many voices
not my own
and I still follow
the odd angle
almost blindly
like a flower turning to sun.
Feathers of the same root
A loose shoelace
and a careening cuff on jeans;
the road seems to turn fluid.
I realize
the treacherous slide
of looking back-
even dirty,
there’s comfort in set equations.
He last wrote with me in mind
months ago
and I discovered it was just an echo
of her, still her,
which made me feel
like a feather plucked
before its time.
And he is worried about time.
But I am floating
just like he is
and it’s all the same now
in mid-air,
with only sky and wind
to hear the tales
and wonder at the silliness
of flesh and synapses.
Isolated
In the white place,
I swept up my own bones
and sang what I recalled
from the womb.
It wasn’t technicolor
and it was’t syncopated,
but it was a fine respite.
Sweet Spring Sweat
It was while waiting
for the other shoe
to drop
we decided to drape ourselves
in kale
before it was too late
for any neo-nostalgic bandwagon
Tell me you don’t try
to hold sunbeams
when nobody’s looking
The only filter
seems to be one of memory,
where we pretend
not to be affected
when the metal song
we lost our virginity to
starts playing,
connecting awkward pauses
to garnish on a plate
all alone for a busboy to view
