Eight Months

While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure

eight

through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you

with me on and off
the trace.

Advertisements

Flash Memoir

“Anonymity is priceless.”
—Jay Farrar, Falling Cars and Junkyard Dogs

At the half
century mark, debris stops

falling long
enough for her

to see stars. Suddenly
she believes

in the power of the speed
of light to guide her

to a place
that needs

no name. Familiar
faces remain

intact. And another
song becomes

a homecoming

she didn’t realize
she was
craving in her sleep.

Dragnet Debris

With original denim
colored eyes
still seeking,
she puts her obsession with death

of punk music
to rest. Silent influences
to speak of
alone together. Another sip

of a double shot
espresso in a true demitasse
cup to stay—
and so she loves

more than one city
these days. No ranking. Even in April
sleet and slush, she leans
toward jean not leather

jackets. But still leather
boots over canvas flats.

Cold Water (April 14)

Maiden. She sank 101 years ago today,
or had started to sink. My father taught me
how to swim in a bay
off a rocky beach. He taught me
how to tie my shoes on porch steps
that spilled onto those rocks—though he said
I taught myself. I never sank
all the way to the bottom.
I’ve always managed to swim
ashore. So many to thank. I could not
have done it by myself.