Beyond the pale of easy-
swings and tirechains
between wooden stakes,
one peachpit sun
yogurtchirrs a jet-furrowed
comes on bitten fingernails as
percolates through brakes
of derelict put-put and hour-
It is changed somewhat.
The blonde-lighted Christmas wreaths halo the streetlamps and make these dark alleys (where I once pressed your waspwaist, cornsmell hair, against my corduroy jacket, bought for three dollars at that thrift store where you planned to buy a couch) appear new.
And though brighter, with more hedges lining the brick walkways, more sinister are these streets I walked in very marrow time.
Mortifero cold birds building nests
in broken lightbulbs
and cabinetdrawers left;
Moonlight wrinkled nights lined
as workschedules pocketed with keys and quarters
worn nostarchwrinkle for a week,
birches unwashed as lingonberry crepes
and maple muffin poppyseeds. Coffee tastes cold,
fingers rub fuzz in pockets dry purple lips
stomachs hot from Buffalo wings,
cheesecake brownies, and mochaccinno drinks.
what to do what to do
i can feel the dew ribbleribble
through the suede of my tennis shoes
“What if there are snakes?” but then
thoughts are not embarrassing--
only their to other expression,
like how it would be okay that she’s 22
and theoretthinks 18 lips 18 hands
might feel good kissing phildrum elbow neck.
Even a knife in hand,
or sound of steamred fallplash on wooden floors can be imagined.
“I want to be the one you want to lean to, lean to” expressed
in purple girlcalligraphy scrawl
across carboncopied caro of Memorexed affection
highschool as nettedstockings tortoiseglasses.
‘no no I am too young for this
I should not regret
what I have not done yet”
I walked by the old church where we performed our school play senior year. I did not love her you know. Even when I would call her, backstage, in costume, during rehearsals, when you were onstage and faking a German accent. I would make plans to see her later. I was really trying to make plans with you.
Eft soon, nelumbo
petals shall pommel paradiddles
on eldritch eyelids;
Poppies beat zydeco across the tin drum of the face
while lung’s accordion squeeze out all
carbon, past and place.