Thirst

Thirst

Everyone knows that berries go to seed.
How did this one become a pendant against my heart?

We know that limestone, under pressure and heat,
becomes marble to line my bath.
Instead this cracked and crumbling grout?

And what about the plum?
Not a tree, not a tart, but a windshield splat.

I choose this water--not fresh
falling snow, not steam that clouds
the mirror--and swallow minty toothpaste.

Misdemeanors

Misdemeanors

Out front a cafe two folding chairs sit together,
a couple; a third to the side, a therapist or priest.

Between them a folding table. Even in bright sun
they are obviously waterproof. Longing for cotton

lycra blends, the chairs strike inviting poses
near a happy face chalked on the sidewalk.

After some time one chair challenges me.
“Why are you sitting over there?” I wish

I was waterproof too. The table is level
on rough pavement--no coffee would spill.

The chairs are similarly competent and measure
their worth in conventional terms:

number of butts cradled, calves itched,
how they stand up to weather. In these

terms they are feeling blue. They strive
to take each moment as it comes.

They imagine their each thought
is a white fluffy cloud crossing the sky.

"Oh it’s there. Look!” they say to each other.
A crow is not measured by who slips

past his perch. A flower, not by how
many bees drink her honey.

The table and chairs resist being swamped
by externalities they can barely influence much

less control, but most days they struggle.
I fold them, and sneak them onto my patio.

I place a budding pink rose in a vase
on the table's brave surface.

It complements the table.
My small crime.

the sense of touch

I

imagine

it blue or green. I am certain

it is a button. So sure I am that I don’t smell it.

Everyone had a parka, right? With thick buttons a mother

could fasten wearing gloves. It is the right size and has no

corners. My finger lolls its smooth belly from side

to side. Its top is crenulated like a slumping

stocking cap or the tented crowns of a

Russian orthodox church. I mistake

the shank for what remained

of the acorn’s style. Once

I say acorn it’s

over.

We need a bigger Sun

We need a bigger Sun

That was still when wires were small,

I tell my absent son. Before the walls

were alive with things. The refrigerator

slept when yogurt was low. The displays

didn’t listen for your tongue’s double click.

The power lines grew thicker until no poles

could raise them. They lined the streets

like maples and in the plants turbines grew

feeding our need to communicate. Now

it takes all the energy of the sun to teleport

just one ounce of you within this universe

and avoid the windshield of a passing car.

Stories we tell ourselves about Money, for example, or Love

Stories we tell ourselves about Money, for example, or Love

What if my phone was really big and came only in black?
What if it was tethered by twisted steel cable,
and I could only talk if I had a round piece of metal
and had thumbed through pages of names?
What if all the phones were connected by wires

like trees and grass by mycelium
like our homes by cleaned water in pipes?
I couldn’t drop it on the sidewalk and shatter its display.
I couldn’t lose it in my purse or silence it at recitals.
I couldn’t smell the last caller’s breath or feel his heat on my face.
The stories we tell ourselves would they stay grounded--
when our loved ones die would the stories hold meaning?
Like voices do when they bounce on a wet string
between dixie cups not at a loss for something to say.