By the Sea

It was like a cannon on the wind
thrown far and wide by a tornado.
We all ended up in the same space,
the same small patch of ground
to call our own; to live in

as we watched each other grow
and flower and propagate,
becoming inviting to passing bees
and ornate women with lace gloves
on their porcelain hands, drifting

by to pluck us daintily by the elbows
and place us, small though we were,
on bookshelves and canvases adorning
their homes.  We were on a hunger strike
we knew nothing of until we met one another,

and with our hands inside our hearts,
found the cool interior beneath
the hot skin sand, throwing handfuls
of each other into the morning spring sky,
melting into glass, where passing light

might make rainbows of us all.
How small we will be together,
in our colors of happiness,
living life made golden by the sea
and the sand and the salt of each other

thrown lazily into the sky,
dim shadows of what we once were
disappearing into the midday sun.

Following the White Rabbit

Stopped and I wondered on the train
about this girl who sat next to me
because I noticed the dirt from her
shoes rubbed off on her feet

and I wondered, like you, if she might
come home and wash them before bed,
or roll around in dirty sheets till she
awoke new in the morning.  Couldn't

know the answer and walked around
fine gentleman in orange vests,
gorilla echoes in the night to call
them underground, under to a vast

other-city, the one above an iceberg
melting in the moon.  Couldn't
find her tonight, just couldn't
she already passed above and beyond

and I missed her.  Missing you, then,
in foreign scenes, out backdoors, walking
through mild winters on the heath,
breakfast mornings and hot breath

sleeping dead, I'm your Snow White
and you're the apple that kissed me
right before I woke up and loved
all over again, loved the warm

summer sun and wet summer rain
and wild abandonment, quiet music
like I always did and forgot.  Don't
forget me because at one time

I was actually important to you not dirt
of this city on your feet from your shoes.  

A Swing Set in the Sun

I could lie about my age to you
but it wouldn't help anything at all,
it would die off in a little cupboard
away from the sun, and right now,

all I want to do is rise in the sun,
stalk the sun, watch him (because
he is a he) turn corners around
tall buildings and laugh to see

only my face reflected as I walk past.
A year ago it was you too; as if you
needed reminding that a year ago,
it was nearly summer and we were

making plans, like so many couples do
and the summer could not wait
to wrap us in its summer embrace,
throwing us into backyard parties

and dinners and yoga, candlelight
and dimness, hot blanket nights
dreaming of the coolness of autumn
and the separation already working

its inevitability.  I remember a night
when the cat first arrived, how he
slept between us, and that was probably
in indication of a larger truth.

I could lie about my age then,
tell you I was much older and wiser
than my fresh sadness dictated,
but that's all right.  I won't lie

to you tonight.  I'll tell you instead
about walking back through the fields
at my old middle school with my first
girl friend, standing on the bridge

of a playground apparatus, and leaning
our faces up at the sun, finding
comfort in each other's strange
presence.  Swing sets come into view,

as if rocking back and forth through
the air made it all better, as if I
remembered for a moment the pure
simplicity of a swing set in the sun.

As if summer might tempt me back
further than you or her, to a time
when a twinkle in my eye
was the next great leap of imagination

and I knew nothing but that if I jumped
I would eventually come down
and not be hurt, because I knew
how to fall lightly.