Analemma

Eventually we begin
to repeat ourselves—the same three
chords, color
pattern, farewell
line in a breakup
text, taste
of ginger
on the tongue. Everything

becomes someone’s
déjà vu, even the truest
saudade expressed
on the side
of a broken
boat in a field.

Step on
my shadow, but don’t
float away
before I recall
your first private
murmurs at dusk.

Living Tower

Even if it was an option, it’s not 

an option 

to date your guardian angel,
even an accidental one.  You may believe 

you’ve exhausted them all, been pushed
to the edge of the jetty—rocks everywhere 

sounding off a raucous
laugh.  But the one who guides you ashore 

cannot be the one to take you 

home 

to love you in a half lit, half
darkened solar. This is more 

than semantics.  This is
a rule bronzed and embedded 

in each Noguchi sculpture
you hope to see and know you’ll want 

to touch.

Emily Said It Too

This light has no logic.
It heats up tinted
images of you wrapping
around the walls 

inside my solar
of make believe. No outside
truth will seep through
to stain your well-defined 

face. The moment talked about,
its contracting destination
point, hangs 

in suspension. We 

don’t get there
from here. And that word
I meant to say, but
didn’t dare, is the only way 

to arrive at your timbre. It’s up
there too, with its swinging “y”
tail making an underline
exclamation beneath 

its other three
letters. They’re up
there to whip subtle
movements off 

their hinges. Big,
bold, block pronouncements
too heavy not to fall
eventually.