Do, as if only this ocean. Its willing
nest pins. When it rolls back,
nudged by light, there’s such an evening.
Everything about
breaks
is what we talk about
over fish. That pause
might have been
a day we slept.
Warmed hands and up to necks
in knotted memories of snow;
Buffalo too often. Under
thumb. The back of my knee,
when thinking so often
of light.
∗ ∗ ∗
Rest mountain.
Arranged grave. What’s happening here?
Try to wake up
the line. Keep
going
with falcons
to follow. The form
under the table,
with a humidifier,
doesn’t breathe as we do.
I mean California now,
or a symptom of bells;
can you imagine
mothering a bird
after all the clouds?
∗ ∗ ∗
If you’re willing,
the sun positions at ocean end;
and, too fast, a dim shimmer.
Two possibilities:
It’s over.
Wouldn’t it be something?
It’s not all imagined, he’s named
after toes are accounted for.
All voices pull apart, fall into the center
where there is offering, a small flute sound.
Yes, the sun comes back with a hollering.
To run away with geese.
But this is more monarch land,
and fireworks are over, July
is over. We cannot go back
to flutter. Imagined echo
where blackberries grow on street corners,
the boy goes to sleep
to wake
as son.
∗ ∗ ∗
Baby boy,
moon down
the pace is hurry.
The doctor remembers a tree
on fire. More
pushing before we’re alive.
Never mind the aviary,
how the hound dog yammers,
it only counts when a pair
of eyes stays blue for at least a year.
I can’t tell in the night.
Suppose the moon knew
and chatted it up. Our circumstances
of lessening, trying to tip toe
or resist a donut. It’s obvious
we need to unfold patio furniture,
make room for that prickly feeling;
the tenderness
is only one of the new things.
When will you commit to the sky?
∗ ∗ ∗
Is that why we fall asleep in sun? Waiting
whistle to call us in for dinner.
Syrup season doesn’t happen this far
west, where the form
bluebirds take
is like prickled nettle. I don’t remember
everything, but his eye shows me
myself. There are no instances
like this instance,
which copies time.
I call my mother to say he is extra
tired today. She says perfect, he is
perfect. What do I want,
what else could I want? This is
subplot. On the clothesline,
the hanging alphabet. We
argue about meaning,
the word quiet.
It’s how it’s all said. It’s how
the laugh follows
everything, everywhere. The ghost
of eggs we let spoil. Meanwhile,
baby boy practices vowels,
gets big cheeks.
