The secret of

pancakes:

love is a myth

buried beneath syrup

and beneath that

is a terrifying void.

A gentle face

throwing shadows on the brick wall

with soft words

of comfort on a sultry night

Streetlights

pouring their own grace

on pulsing sidewalks

but we scatter to a night wind

Fireflies

gliding across waves of fields

bending across night

leading us to a quiet rest

We waited as long as it took

for the moon to draw

some of the sun’s heat

from the rock,

but it feels like

we won’t be ready

for the next evolutionary

step, so backsliding

seems appealing.

I have a memory

of a juicy plum

but I can’t remember

if I liked it

or if it was just

a refreshing idea

on an oppressive day.

I’m a giant burl

a fungus

spun into a lumpy shape,

a coil of sadness/excitement and trepidation

about a tomorrow

where all the wood is expected

to fall in with the rest of time.

I don’t know how the ocean

will receive me.

I want to learn a floating song

that allows my limbs to fall

open and smoothly

on the summer breeze.