Think nothing of it. Hand your words, / not even enough to be a poem, / to that piano man.
Three palm trees edging / a Florida bay, irises I planted, now a snarl / in Tennessee
The limp and worm eaten alder leaves / won’t stop moving in this afternoon’s breeze
My whole life I’ve played / a silver instrument, a hand-me-down
So it’s true . . . even the formerly respiring / and the brazenly perished can stand to improve.
When you leave for the third time / I drink pink wine and shuffle along // the hall we painted orange
First it was just the sun pulling us in slices toward the sky, / clinging soil, nitrogen and chlorophyll.
Though her finger can’t reach / she’s telling you be quiet / as if there’s a word for it
Without a riverbed you lean / feel your way through this dirt / as if it’s her voice you’re after
The past week was draining / I want to explain
