A quiet afternoon, 

sun streaming 

sideways through dark 

curtains, leaves 

rustling, faded nearby. 

Capturing light 

and moving it along 

in the shape of 

skin and latitude, 

it’s a simple “touch me”

 written in code 

on moth’s wings. 

Before and after, 

a plaintive call 

to find a place inside someone 

to hold and be held. 

The birds don’t question heights 

or currents when they fly. 

Bravado is letting go; 

we are both dark 

and heavy on our own.

The green hill shone

in the summer sun

as the lone island

among coal banks

and pines.

We danced

like lightning bugs.

It was sweltering

beneath the unforgiving sky

and the day was so full

of heat and dust;

relief came only

in dreams.

Post-storm clouds moved faster

than deer at a switchboard;

the chatter is mostly navigation-

like housewives in molasses.

The navy hasn’t reported many UFOs

because their desert is already blue.

Skies don’t have dialects.

She looks up with less and less joy.

When he sits quietly for too long,

he sees spies, which turn out to be

his eyes closing in on window screens,

lashes lashing, lashed.

Post-storm air tastes like licking

a railway track but the romance

of going someplace makes the tongue

dance a little and sing ‘Amen’.

I’ve waited a long time to see the moon

and sometimes it seems

she’s been watching me

and maybe waiting for a reaction.

I don’t think she knows how thrilling

it is to learn her craters.

I already know I don’t measure up

but we can still dance to her light.

The hills at night almost demand it.

I like the little diorama I’ve been placed

in, though I would have chosen

a different table and rug.

Flowers bloom semi-regularly here

and food is readily available

as long as I sit at a desk several hours

a week and smile and ignore

a large portion of broadcast media.

Daydreams rum rampant inside

contained spaces. I follow a trail.