hangover
we tuned our voices, weekly, ’til our intervals
finally physically jumped and shook
the wood we stood on. then, it was done. no point
in dwelling on the past.
we tuned our voices, weekly, ’til our intervals
finally physically jumped and shook
the wood we stood on. then, it was done. no point
in dwelling on the past.
the wind can’t quite decide which way to blow
a busload of kids, chattering voices
and basketballs bouncing, echoing off of housefronts, a helicopter,
the train. then suddenly, silence.
one tiny off-white rose for each new story
and spring is hardly just begun
a friend steps back and savors the sprawling bush
while the critics find the flaw in each petal
her face was paler than her foundation. “he had
a wristband, like he’d just been released
from the hospital, and he was randomly taunting people,
acting crazy, and then
the train was coming, and he tried to push this guy
in front of the train, and luckily, people
near them reacted quickly, and jumped him.” brahms,
hungarian dance number 5
the evening’s clear. wisteria gilds the gates,
expectant, like the thought that in
some mail truck, over town, there waits your book
of poems from a friend