On the 13th day,
I recognized the feeling
of you in my body linked
to those boyfriends of my lovely
high school and college past
who I had but did not have,
that I yearned for because
there was a bittersweet beauty Continue reading “Note To . . .”
Tag: poetry
Observations
“You taste like dust,” you told me.
“But clean dust, gray dust,
gritty but not dirty.”
How to respond?
It is good to taste of dust
that is not dirt, gray
but not brown, with texture
that, nonetheless, is somehow acceptable. Continue reading “Observations”
What is Lost
For Curt
The road goes north or east,
And no one knows if it might end
Or where. The sycamores lift leafy heads
Away from the highway’s movement
Above bridges still being built.
The exit calls to you
Like a childhood classmate you don’t
Remember but recognize anyway.
LED billboards jangle the night
Into a kind of hyperactive silence
On the edge of the city. Continue reading “What is Lost”
Silver
We are near the silver, approaching it,
The light like nothing, like everything,
The joy of the movement, the day, the heat
Of the color of your eyes and nothing
Between us, the color of nothing
Between us. If you stand here a while,
You will know what I mean.
Stand here a while. Know what I mean.
–Shaun Perkins
When We Were Young
for Roxann on her birthday
“Open you mouth,”
She said to sister Kelly,
Sitting in the high chair,
Smelling those mashed turnips,
Knowing none of that
Was getting in. Continue reading “When We Were Young”
The Thing About Chairs
I love simple wooden chairs. I love how they look against a wood floor. On a porch. Stacked up against a wall. Hanging on a wall (I have an old dark-stained one that I use as a towel rack on the bathroom wall.) I think the artwork at the Oklahoma memorial to the bombing victims, those rows of chairs, is sublime. I wrote a manuscript once about a girl preoccupied with painting landscapes that always had a chair in them. Continue reading “The Thing About Chairs”
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 