He couldn’t reach her
because it was too long
what came between them
She almost didn’t mind
the wait in between
because it was thrilling
When it got too dark
they counted on chaos
with its sweet delay
poetry
Night. Moves.
The heads are talking without
seeing or caring much
about wind direction
or how much pepper to add.
I have some secrets
that I wear openly
but no one seems to get
the codes or the patterns
like plaid like trios like spirals
bound to be plated with gravy
with sides of sparkly faraway
daydreams wearing corsets
loosened with teeth by nightfall
if the mind is willing
and the flesh bends the right way.
The moon says yes, please.
Corvid Zen
The conscious crow
does not consider
water on Mars important
nor whether dogs have souls.
A crow in the know does not need
affirmation from strangers
to feel worthy.
The crow uses its wits
almost wholly
to capture worms.
Churning
She sat Indian-style on the barcalounger
clacking her castanets, singing,
“what have you drawn me today?”
He could only watch
as she twisted and swiveled in the seat
as if churning butter with her hips
and he thought about when he had been
seasick on the ferry
and wished for mountains.
Now, he had all the heights he ever wanted
just outside their home
but could only watch
his heart twist in a figure-eight pattern
to the sound of castanets and laughter.
