2016 poems

November 22, 2016

i bust open Gwendolyn’s package of minutes.
the tick-tock things harnessed
by tired arms, framed in facial
features.

she speaks until the sky loses its orange.
the streaks fleeing like feet
breaking away.
at 10:18; stuck like the stars
against that chalky black backdrop
banging out thunder.

hope is far off.
stuck to the oars
you forgot to stick
in the boat before
embarking.

we are in that sea.
we are the tattered
sheets bashing against
the wind, the corks
gripping the glass
edges of each bottle
bobbing between
the swells

they rise like
chain link fences
stacking up to seal off
the sun; its rays peeking
through the kite-shaped
crevices. i breathe in
the shards of light, slick metal,
small gaps big enough for
gleams and flickers to
pour through.

I’m envious of that blaze
and how easily it
seeps towards escape.
it doesn’t fumble
doesn’t grope
doesn’t slip
thrash
or labor.

only flows.

you are adrift,
i am a shipwreck,
a colossal mess,
run aground miles
below the steady currents
of expectations, below
a waterline constructed
of worthless plastic boats
forever afloat far from home.

and I can barely see the
glowing skyline reflections
lapping against the foam.
you remind me that
Rome wasn’t built in a day-
something about how bricks
can be preserved, ruins
reinforced, recreated like
religion through copper
telephone wires.

you remind me as
we paddle back to retrieve
our oars.



i'm awake, sort of

i’m awake, sort of.
like a morning sun
inching itself over a
death gray landscape.

you say the world is “alive”
all I know is that it is “vast”
and its life can’t stretch far
enough to quicken my pace
most days.

short strides carry me past the
old Pour House building,
housing a dump of snow
on its overhang.
ice that clings to
the morning like a child’s
hand grasping railings
or the coat pockets
of a parent descending
steep stairs.
like the winter,
unwanted

i’m the blurred images
deteriorating in the pages
of local history books.
black and white snow
drifted upon the folio in
a bank of moments.

you are the gloss.
the sharp shots carried
closest to the hearts of
large crocks nestled in
the corners of midnight
kitchens. at 1:20 you sneak
away to attach yourself
to passerby carrier pigeons,
perfumed with rose petals.

i smell you in the air,
rising from beneath my
lofty hopes of arriving home
in time to sleep.
i spot you in the hues
of the November sun
airing towards my
tiny town already drenched
in charm.
the pressing of my ear to
the ground illuminates
an earth that

until this moment

was distant-
it’s embers wouldn’t
catch on the Oak leaves
shuddering above the
warmth.