baby birch

it’s spring, my sapling
but i can’t watch you
stretch your branches
or spread fingers
in the sky. can’t hear
your laughter shake
green in the wind

don’t smell good earth
kicked up at your
little root feet,
petrichor when
you point & tremble

sweet sapling, spring
shows me space you
may have been; another
whole hole full
of emptiness

rather, i plant myself
in a cotyledon curl,
dream of more
yellow birds alight
in dark branches

& on white flashes
of bark, brown eyes
watch me, unblinking

in a yellow wood,
my sapling, spring
is ever on the edge
of my eyelid, my lips
spill voiceless
mouthfuls of converge
converge
converge.

he sayd, she sayd

his backache groans

as fate & conscience

readjust, settle

their weight

on the balance

of his shoulders,

& tendril secrets

in gilded strands

to a whirring spool

between sharp ears.

when he listens

he cocks his head

forward, so he can

see the circumference

of your words

before they land.

he is two steps back

& eagle eyed.

he is one great

leap ahead.

on seat-edges

in red dark

we strain forward

ears, eyes eager

open wide, wide

for the spring song

of a small brown bird.

perched on stage,

perched on one

leg, the other

trying to launch her

skyward with every

takeoff note.

but the weight

of her words is more

than just heavy.

the coo and tremble

in her hollow bones

take us too close to the

sun for wax wings

& the curtains

of her face.

forever ago is for emma

south & south west
you crouch atop a windaround
dirt hill, hide from mother, sister, wife,
hold out - in arms that shake
like samson’s pillars,

arms streaked with red dust
& a tired tenderness -
a squalling mass
of big eyes & brown curls,
whisper what you gave away
& want forgiveness.

but all i can do is break
like a five string serenade,
like a long dream from a short sleep
in a cold night, and slap tears
off my cheeks on a bad morning.

(one from october) airstream

a sharp smart
in eyelid corners
after a quick inhale
of crisp october air.
it tingles, a nosetip
almost-sneeze,
furious blinking.

i clench a weight
of wind in hungry fists,
release it as
currency, the cost
of explaining
forward momentum.

a wet wobble
in swept current,
after a riverbed heart
of smooth regret
slides loose, chooses
flow — over staid,
stubborn eroding.

for the times

for the times
it didn’t end
and times
before it did

a slow song
with long notes
in a minor key
and 3/4 time

to be one fourth
out of touch
with whateverelse

and three fourths
in touch
too much
with yourselfs

for the times
you edgeskirted
so long you wore
the edge in
and it bent
toward the void
and lost its lip

for the wind
and the winding
maps of self-progress
always in circles,
and cycles

for the wheel
that sent you
reeling
further in
further down
instead of up
and out.

for the crave
of silence instead
of whitenoise.

all the time
overwhelmed by
dizziness
until all you need
is to stop the ride
and get off

for your chime
of hollow laughs
echoing against
the sides of
themselves

for the dark
grimaces
you mask as grins
and bear it
barely

for the tips
of fingers
whiteknuckled,
their reach
long after
your reaching

for the times
of good notes
and good days
good shades
of good greys

good friends

and goodbyes.