Falling Star

Just as this bed faces the window now,
just like we turn toward the night
where lace curtains hang like they’ve always hung
since people first learned how to hide.

Just like I want to turn toward you,
or how sometimes I might go inside
when you get home so late and I’m looking away,
still the words that you say, and the way that you say,

and the hands that you lay, the space just melts away.

Look how it’s all been forgotten,
how we all forgot something again,
we are trying to grow up and we’re trying to grow old,
and we find ourselves right where we’ve been

before, there were so many answers
from the suit men erupting like fires,
so we stand in the face of the answer man
and the smoke and the jokes and the liars,

and the forests are burning like pyres.

Just as I need to turn toward you now,
just like your arms hold me tight,
and we make a new verse to replace this old curse
for the poets who’ve shown us the light.

See how I’m learning the same thing again,
and this might always be how it goes,
so we do it all over, except this time it’s better,
and the night comes again, and the light comes again,

thought I’d walked through this door, then discover there’s more.

In a moment last night, in the dust of a dream,
a vision through half sleepy eyes,
but real as the truth, or the words that you say,
or the voices of those who will rise.

With love on our side, between curtains flung wide,
a star cuts the sky like a knife
with a trail so bright it erases the night
as the mountain erupts like a fire,

and the heat of it burns like a choir.

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Under the Sky

News drops like a rain,
like autumn’s last leaves
coming down on the roof.
They do not stop, these
moments of revelation,
the good ones, and the
hard ones, too.

The sky changes all day,
where once there was light,
now there is shadow,
warmth before and now
we reach for blankets
and for one another,
which is to say

let’s do this together.

Wild Bloom

Love,
be like raindrops
devoured
by dry earth,
unbridled
as wild flower
blossoms,
and be
consumed
by the scent of it,
the lush of it,
fall back
into fields
of the decadent
bloom
that swallows
our thoughts and the time
in this high untamed
garden
at summertime’s end,
spill
every last petal
of riotous blue
to the black earth
that beckons
all back
to the soil
between
your barefooted
revelrous
roots.

Simultaneous

Three Poems

Thick summer, ripe                           with stories,
with cherries, bodies                        on the news,
slow and sultry like                           violence, insidious as
a warm breeze moving                     our subconscious heavy
through branches bowed                 with the weight of it, we numb
with dusty wine                                 our thoughts, even as we reach for
plums and apple                               stems not yet ripe and crave
beginnings, green                             sweetnesses of life, not bullets like
hummingbirds buzzing                      broken streets and our psyches.  We are hungry
for fruit in all stages,                          for resolution, tasting their answers,
from sour to sweet,                           from truth to lie,
under a high July                               this planet spinning beneath the
sunshine where time                         talking, ticking like a bomb that
slows to nothing,                               shatters again and again,
and everything                                   everything
is changing                                        is struggling for light.

Night River

River swollen with
the June side of spring
runs bulge to bank

even as I sleep,
broken brambles swept
sideways into white

water wearing
brown borrowed earth,
liquid siege

like swift time
toward a downstream
dream as the night rain

comes down
from a lightning sky, drop
by drop by deluge

to the sea, past
the rocks now smooth
with the rush of it,

no more resistance
to the flood of it
as everything softens

like stone and like
golden sunrise on the gift
of another morning.

The Little Cheese Shop

The only thing
more scrumptious
than the dairy mosaic

stacked haphazardly
to perfection
is the red-scarfed woman

behind the counter,
her face swallowed
in a smile, she slices slivers

from inexplicable blocks,
laughs at your ecstasy
and at your goat-barn

astonishment. She offers
tastes of secrets
that come from deep

under the ground
and expounds
the mystery of accidents,

like the blue fungus
that appeared in a vein,
and the fact that two

weary travelers
have wandered
into this wooden box

of pure delight
in a small Irish village
one parish away from Boston.

And when she wraps
your handmade treasure
in white paper and says,

It is because
you have
so much joy,

you know that this
is the meaning
of your life.