I forget it’s not summer and
my sigh is heard on the moon and
reflects on the crowd of spectacular
spirits once upon a who I loved long
and ago and will wait only so long
before buzzing back to better or
beyond though I never had much or
succeeded with stories that seemed so smooth
for other faces but what I mean
is the sun gets sick of all this rot
so here take this half-quarry and build
without instruction or sleep or slap
up the usual hiding hut with clean
paper and fresh pins for lines post-collapse
Tag: summer
-
it’s often the way when days are
less generous with their light and
walking the dog in trees furry
scents and a noise near or far you
choose to ignore those little hopesfor the weekend with green softness
over the lawn insects float or
dart the breeze that might keep me up
tonight I know it’s not your faultyou know the darkness catches up before
summer gets going I should stop
saying you know you know anywhoo thelast time we met you were spitting
in the eye of some hurricane
-
But when you’re young and dream of
escaping narrow Westchester
for exotic New England. But
before summer was over we
were. I returned carrying somecigarettes, Sometimes I Wish I
Was a Pretty Girl, your hand-drawn
map to the clitoris, and when
I think of your face that one dayhair bright honey light your smile our
world holding your hand through the years
hoping something might fit like thatonly better. But the dusty
manuscripts, the unicycle,
-
we’ve been unwilling subjects of this experiment as long as
so I said why not take a stab at taking a break see the sea and see what happens but now it seemed to present a note of late summer grass too long submerged in still water so let it rot and replace it if and when any other if and when reach ripeness though who knows what colony may have flourished on the washed rind of that tepid advice for a queasy smile as far as this stomach can walk while empty a small star broadcasts its lukewarm burn
-
in dark before dawn just above
a little dog green yellow light
off on again in corkscrew paths
over hosta and brown lawn blinkbefore
these small legs running from light to
flying light in summer’s sleepy
sticky arms didn’t know why I
needed this brightness in my hand
-
New ebook!
Well, e-chapbook, really. I’ve been working very hard on this little collection of a dozen sonnets and I’m glad to say that they’re finally ready.
Here’s a sample. Enjoy!
we ran out of gas before we got there
metaphorically of course the car was
just an ancient generation’s notion
of freedom or some such so later whenwe seemed to be writing a story for
the new employer on the optimal
monetization of the eternal
memes (to avoid the friends convenience made—
their brotips and conversations like photos
of completely uncluttered interiors)we made a slow-motion escape attempt
but were swallowed by the slothy summerand rose at noon to find the cicadas
gleefully gone on their fatal picnicCheck out my books page if you want to see more.
-
-
in the forest where they planned that nasty surprise tiny flowers try to take over the world fish look surprised and sure he was never one to
and what could we do but invite him if we were going to the summer house as you waited with the light straight down from the clouds in planks and the ducks looking like they’ve lived through worse though
the party that night with everyone still feeling a bit raw from the afternoon staring into their drinks waiting for someone to mention going to bed so we could say oh yes what a good idea me too
other animals 