He became a doll
she left in the rain.
The way his lips
and brows faded, his eyes
continuing to stare
at the cleared morning sky,
or her when she stood
over him. She didn’t care.
And now when she does,
it’s too late. He won’t smile—
they’ll never kiss again.
A man on stilts
is busy doing his best
to convince passersby
to rethink the glass
wall. I walk
by a sign for free
smells—wonder how
many grams of fat
per sniff. I’m going to stand
taller when I inhale
that deeply.
Three red chairs
tied together with gold
twine put her to sleep.
Rejuvenated driftwood
can split dreams
into chapters
she might remember
to revisit. Or
she might float.
To laugh at serious
windows is
to forget
how I love
running on sand
dunes before dawn.
I drink hot
coffee in the rising
heat to cool
off. It works
the way no liquid could
when I was
drunk. When I would use
any day of the week
during any season
as an excuse. But nothing
can stop me
from memorizing
the long light of now.
Waiving
the right to write,
I am a silent tree
shading a racket of dreams left
behind.
Behind a picture frame, buried
in the sand beneath
handmade cedar shingle
swings, above
the dunes, floating on
the surface of a disturbingly calm
bay, I might discover
my new obsession.
On her way to join
a cult, she unearths
her identity on the edge
of the woods
where she used to get lost.
No agent would help
the poet. Bottles
get flattened down to two
dimensions—a window display
for early morning
risers uncertain
about their place. Whoever
turns himself
in becomes the true
peddler of reprieve.
These are
elastic skies
that won’t snap into night
before it’s time to pause under
the cusp.
