I got so tired of
boxing my face;
contuses, some minor concussions, and all
I learned how to move with some silent grace
like a temperate climate.
But only this once.
In fall we planted
at the station of descent.
We gathered ourselves,
our leaves, our roots, our browning contusions,
our sore worn out all auburn everything,
our little defects we latched onto by the bundle,
and with some carelessness,
tossed them in the air
to litter each other with polite coughs and
and hope that we remember how to be
we’re sucking teet again.
Winter wore the walls of white like shining, albescent armor
protecting itself from it’s own savvy sparring:
all black all midnight everything,
bowing to the feral dogs that still fancy themselves
even though they’re frozen and beat to an ice cube.
They still sneer like the savage wolves they wombed from.
We’re there too, buried in some cutout somebody playing sweater,
fulgent and frozen and cutting off our crying toes
that used to walk so casually but turned steel blue
trudging through the stinging snow
and falling one by one by one.
And we’re feasting on memory
like our godless wolves.
Some emerge wearing the dawn
like a cape,
the annual battle put on hold:
buds reach the topsoil,
flower into words,
dandelion spikes drift through the hair of impish toddlers,
lucky rabbits and unlucky moles
dug to the surface by victorious cats and the weeds whisper:
“you’re home now.”
And we wear them like crowns
and forget about our feet.
Cut rose petals into hearts.
Come June, we’re dissolved and drunk with the sun like a cool Colada,
resolved of it all.
Issues falling back down on us in a fleecy drizzle:
washing our steaming skin of all it’s back talk so for once we
We do get what we deserve.
Perfectly molded snow cones and it’s not high noon yet,
cool like baby’s first baptism and no fear of drowning,
like Niagara on a warm ride,
like the way he noticed our haircut
Like God chases us just as much
as we have laid our weapons down and
We could be as radiant and everywhere as Texas wildflowers,
as graceful as snowflakes,
(all soft landing without the histrionic fuss)
as firm as Red Cedars,
as soft as wild Earth,
as bright as bold as strong as gold,
the way we walk so steady,
so tall so hopeless and full of hope,
if we could just sing summer’s rosy pitch
all year long
the way we endlessly bleat remorse.
Please, I have seen so much.
If we could remember anything,
come late December,
we would be cured.