• Two Poems



    Because these sunsets
    mean an end, let’s just look
    elsewhere for proof.
    Ants crawling beneath the table,
    clouds that look like wraiths
    one second, a mangled finger
    the next. Are we figures or symbols?
    There’s nothing in my hand,
    just caught between reach
    and reached. Meanwhile, the stones
    are brooding. They must be
    because they are alive, my father
    said once, after painting them white
    for the night to witness. I must navigate
    past all this sadness. It’s crazy how
    leaves make so much movement
    with just one passing gust.
    You feel it, even in the dark.
    Words, words, words. And cabins
    whose doors shudder in anticipation
    as we approach the bend.

    * * *


    While we try to reel in more of
    what shouldn’t be leaking, hold
    this rose. It’s the fish seconds after
    being taken out of the water,
    the iris drying up. Hold this rose,
    it arrived when we were not looking,
    slipped in a notion of the passing
    to the stones. That the brittle begs
    to be held anyway and sometimes
    the sky turns into a ceiling, hold this
    rose. Even the body is full of stems.
    When answers are few, flashlights
    drawing out only more shadows
    and from the dark comes an anguish
    that wafts into the room, open the door.
    The body is full of stems; hold this rose.


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