Posts published in “Poems”

Your fingers run hot against my arm,
Brushing toward my own, opening a conversation
About where we are, about where we were
Before we got to where we are. And we can sit
Here, amongst the passion and words wanting
To be said with touch and presence– amongst
The passion and words wanting to be said,
But I’d rather touch you instead. And I trace
The ands I say to find my way behind your eyes,
To find my way into your world, where I can
Curl up and stay, forgetting how we got here–
Forgetting we were ever not here. And your lips,
Inviting me, show teeth so slight’ly.

I, the tumbleweed,
Long dry and uprooted,
Play atop the grains of sand.

Your husband misses you,
Mrs. Staines.

Everything I do
I try to make it for you;
Can’t say I always do,
But I try to make it for you.

I’m sure I’ve failed you;
Not that I meant to,
But I know I can’t be
Always who you’re wanting.

Your eyes
Shake me down,
Take my smile,
Turn these words
Around, into shivers,
Crawling out in sweat;
The scent
From your lungs
Slows my own,
Breaking rhythm
As I find yours,
Pulling the tips
Of fingers together.

See, now, where I come from,
The warm blue skies puff a little bit,
The wet green leaves sway a little bit,
The wild purple petals surprise a little bit,
And every stop sign is a turn toward home.

Every day, the wind goes by,
Every day. The wind goes by,
And, when it stops, I will miss it,
Until it goes by again.

Every day, the wind goes by,
Every
Day
The wind
Goes by, and,
When it stops,
I
Will miss it,
Until
It goes by
Again.

Listen to me tell you everything is OK,
But, please, don’t record this conversation,
Because I don’t want to later hear
All these fallacies

Except
Down
The gutter,
Palming the raindrops
Which circled
And coalesced m
Under his feet;

He belonged closer to the
Ground, but let
That sour wind
Bring him
Again

Up the water spout.

“She exists,”
I tell myself
When alone enough
To wonder if
There’s anyone else.