A forest grows in us

A forest grows in us

sunswept sounds

in our sleep, smile.

 

We give our world

garble of heartbeats

wrapped around

 

each other, like

trees wrap around

each other.

 

A swarm of promises,

like moths sprung —

flicker of this across

his awakening face.

La Primavera

(he slept in his clothes

and beautiful

is a jealous god

 

brick on brick

that knows itself

from the times before

 

and yet

paying my rent

on the fall of your hair

 

considerations:

the price of tobacco

la primavera

 

It makes sense

the way bricks do math

the rest of my life

 

putting on his shoes

and totally absorbing

and I guessed I belonged

 

The Whole Picture

The picture doesn’t look like much mostly finger and blur-sky

but the ground was all fresh wet pink polka dots to catch

or I wouldn’t have even looked up to see the sun nose

through the clouds snowing down thick pink petals and

tried to catch it, catch myself catching it and got a finger

print and a bit of sky. There’s no room for bitterness in this

walk of a poem. It’s not the sour of “to treasure,” but the sweet.

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.