How little we are needed.

A sweep of present, forgetfulness,

as numbered minutes switch.

 

Here spins from a dragonfly

and is felt in my whole body.

A serene, extended purpose.

 

My hollow can blossom and

scrape a slow shadow across

a moment.

 

We will leave.

Always tomorrow calls its gibberish

at the bathroom mirror.

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Problem.

And send us more.

We have stayed too long.

There maintains its stare.

And it went like that

it enters inside my knees

message —

allow the days.

But how to distinguish?

It’s embarrassing

preparing.

These are answers.

Courage to draw a blank.

On the glass of

the hall mirror, is

a fairly accurate

description.

August

Sometimes stones,

nothing grows.

 

A gushing stream,

we are busy doing nothing

 

bend and green

make moving shadows

 

August. one after the other

as family spills through.

 

Under the desk lamp,

pages, as I turn forgiveness.

 

I like the idea of answers.

Or how greatly we disturb the garden.

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.