A Letter to Tara From Baltimore

dinapeek

A Letter to Tara from Baltimore

 

Baltimore’s a pleasant honey autumn,

but my heart’s with you in Boston.

These leaves wave vulgar facsimiles

of New England’s flashy jewels.

Some of them are still green.

 

Here, at my desk by the window,

I put my hand up to block out the

row houses across the street.

Once alone with the sky,

I’m transported, and now we’re

 

walking along The Charles in

Cambridge. And the sailboats

are white fins in among the water’s

sparkle-glints. And there’s the sweet

smell of autumn rot, wood burning.

 

The leaves flaming and falling

around us and collecting in piles.

That particular grace of warm

sunshine when the air changes

and you realize you have a nose.

 

Church bells call out the same

and trains clamor like they used to,

but the sidewalk’s a pitiful river when

I take my hand away. Everything’s

slower in Baltimore.

 

The sun is lazy. The clouds are lazy.

Birds sweeping by, intend to stay.

Someone’s smoking. Wind.

Flesh loosening from bone.

Oh Tara, I am some watcher of skies.

Like the Piano Keys

 

Aging in the afternoon.

Shuttered in

with idling air

barred by a thin usual.

 

The past hissed

steamed, broken;

the sky retching clouds.

Years, an anchor of

generations.

 

We are accustomed,

Invisible.

A hand out

floating in time.

 

How awkward:

Stale old beds.

Our worries like watches.

 

The inherited cup fills

certain to drop.

Shadow heavy as lead.

We shall miss the mark.

Our Own

With our own hands.

Poetry.

Mirror

 

out of darkness.

Mouths

knew too much.

 

Live like this:

The early

astronomers.

 

Like flame.

Then always, like flame.

That tidy enjoyment.

 

This manner is dance.

Unbridled..

Beyond artifice

 

flooded in sun

and regularity,

I have shared

 

that bright seat.

I pause; streaked

by fingers.

 

In a room

half-

familiar.

 

You feel it —

The flash of rebellion

in yielding

 

too far

with crimes

against solitude.

Heart Growled

 

Smelling of wood.

Remembering garden.

Impatient flowers

relentless against night’s peel.

A whimpering dream

of gold chimed

a dappled tapestry

of threads

like a shore.

The wave knew wandering.

Freedom,

untended confusion.