The Bird

The bird walked along
not looking
stepping on dead worms
Beautiful and dark and
covered in old seashells

The bird sang quickly
The bird sang to each day
Without response
Without necessity
Each day had its love

The bird never learned to still
The bird sang and walked
All the other animals
would listen to the song of the day
smiling in another direction

The other animals knew
it would never stop walking
Even the dead worms
knew its weight would pass
And they smiled

The bird walked and flew
Its secrets, untranslated
Each day had its lover,
a song to describe each breath
The bird walked along

Drawers

And in night, the secrets left out
are shoved back into drawers
Bruises from caught fingers reminding
to take better care

The untidy secrets, themselves
nothing more than memories petrified
Leaving them out to be loved
is the true act, the true courage

Growing without space in drawers,
Secret truths made out of tree
sprout up with cramps and pain
They cautiously slow

The doors remain closed despite
a mutual need for air and warmth
There is whimpering
There is always understanding

The patience of life
requires drawers opened,
An untidy trust without hesitation
for crooked trees to grow

Lilypads

We haven’t always

Those old cups of coffee
Warming and cooling
lilypads

In our sanctuaries
pink, and green
Lilypads of old coffee

There is no effort

Mindless placement
of collective love
left to satiate later

The lilypads rest
They always grow,
adjusting

We will always

Our mindless love is safe
Green, and pink
Cold coffee

We are each other’s sanctuary
Warming and cooling
lilypads

Eating the Pickle at the End

I’m writing a poem
to help me sleep

I’ll write the title last
Like eating the pickle
at the very end

I can’t sleep
I never learned how

But the words always explain
the direction blood flows
and how fast

In there,
with that delicious pickled quiet

In there I feel kind
and never tired
The blood moves evenly

Poems can last whole days
as dreams cover mountains

I feel no worry
about the speed of my blood
in there

Maybe untitled is best
This only makes me stay awake

Wednesday is Trash Day

Who is to be given these things I wish to say
Why must they be said

My patience is not selfless
I feel grief

It is mine alone
Given to freely, you can ask

I can see each filter, not touching
I can see through them

Who wants this giving
Why must some want to give

It’s easy to stop
But for that selfish patience

Its warmth touches the filters
And they begin to touch, too

Storms are shared
And currents tested

Every memory is already sedate
There is only the Earth’s curve

Cold Summer

I miss you, Summer
I’m listening to Tosca
over and over

I miss you

It’s too cold out to sweat
I’ve barely started to sweat at all
I miss you, Summer

Are you going to be back
next year?
Did you get a new job?

Summer, I miss you

I miss the fan’s humming
and pain from the sunlight
bouncing off shiny things
and children beet-red, running
and fireflies
and sweat

Summer, I miss fireflies

I don’t know why it isn’t happening
this time around
But it seems
everyone’s in fog
because we miss you

I miss your comedy
and my reaction

I miss how you felt on me
I want to feel that

Summer,
I want melted popsicle breath

I miss you and I listen to Tosca
because I'm not sweaty
and there are no fireflies