Settling my hand on a bur oak’s bare chest. Flailing distantly for the giving reach and feeling encouragement from limestone crevices beneath - I leap. Hints of living where fish swarm in silver darts for lunch and never hunger. She holds enough. They have two children in thick, wool hats. A transparent bond below a howling dog’s wounded voice caroling softly across the bristling stones.
Sometimes, if only cherries had a kiss. Sprouting endearing pestilence. Most, yes - alright - all of the time, I’d rather have lemons’ early dew.
in the soft torrential curls that
pool at the base
in that fresh morning milk
comes the caustic awakening
sonrojo en su sonrisa
the same flavor as sunrise
I’d rather tener palos para construir una cabaña. I’d like you to scratch my chest, claw at the limbs, burn from the roots, and watch my fruit fall.
I am not the carbon copy, but rather the rough suffocating diamonds. In these dank caves, nothing comes through - signals upon waves upon kilojoules of pixels. Time to turn off the news.
Listening to your voice, I wonder how many beautiful poems I’ve hated listening in mine.
No dogs on the bridge. No bikes either, for that matter. But definitely no dogs without leashes. That’s how they get you: you say, dogs without leashes, we can cross that bridge when we get there. All of a sudden, you can’t cross with the dog, so, you ditch the leash and boom, you’ve violated the sacred oath. No dogs without leashes.