taste

it’s just not the same,
the blue cheese, as when it comes
off of your fingers.

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Jamie

The peaches are dropping,
dollar a pound.  Orchardist
at first blush, he drives
the camo four-wheeler,
broken and mended, trades
his walker for the wheel, two
new hips, and a brand-new
kidney, the boy from Greenwich
Village drives toward the heavy trees,
how he blossomed with the Beats, a
camera in his hands, and how he twists
each fruit so gently, to help it let go.
The dapple sun about to dip, our
buckets full, but not too full,
to protect the soft ones
hiding underneath.

After A Day

I didn’t know how
to stop the conflict,
so I got out of the car
and walked up the road,
it was dirt, and the evening
was getting on, and there
were many beautiful grasses
growing in the summer dusk,
and there were things changing
all around us, and inside of us
and as the sun was setting,
we drove home in silence,
where we sat together on
the couch, under a knit
blanket and touched
limbs until bedtime,
falling toward the
soft knowing that
wraps the only
thing that
matters.

In Spring

No orbital saturation
like the lime baby grasses
of springtime. Bath
of color, and all ballast
sinks to the bottom
of those tender shoots.

Tender like us,
though I’m not sure why
we spend so much energy
pretending we are not.

Let’s push up through
this fertile dark, exposed,
and let the long winter
deliver our bodies
to the raw green courage
of a fragile and glorious bloom.