for all the dreams short lived
for all the sighs brief and deep
i will build a castle
cars have their streets
people their houses
we moved to the wind
for all the nights i walked to nowhere
and ended at your side
for you, who waited arms crossed
i will build a castle
to moments we sent
like arrows to autumn stars
i will dig a grave
the rooms are empty in october
in what we once called us
Timeless feelings, the Appalachian trail
and the love I hold for you like the sky.
A time zone countenance and research
that’s gone all wrong.
Have you noticed, how the trees like to talk
mostly on Tuesdays and Thursdays?
They whispered in my ear,
if you get it wrong, you’ll still be alright.
Lock jaw and tact as hard as rock,
you broke the ground and found something
none of us ever talked about.
You’ve been my hero for a while now.
I still read about that Golden Child
you say you saw,
still wonder what’s true and how to behave.
When I’m with you, I feel the freedom,
and the weight.
there is another person that figures
the sandwich will be tough to bite into and
the road will feel much shorter on the way back.
grief is a shoe, unlaced. all rocks look alike, but you are special.
this person knows that the long trench coat was made for you.
they adore the fit. they see it like a permanent blanket over the body.
the small scrapes in life will become part of the frayed quilt, still unfinished
apparently. the much larger problems will become the sunset, red and drippy.
this person knows the figure eight made with a pencil, encoding infinity
onto our schoolwork, for probable solutions and determination,
was not really to test knowledge, but to scaffold endurance.
this person would like to sleep inside warm thighs.
you have thighs. you have washed the green grapes.
they are ready to be plucked from their stem, rationed
like bad advice, then devoured in seconds.
there too, is a love out there. it is waiting for you, ripe and ready
to be plucked from its dry stem, and rationed, then devoured
only in seconds.
He likes G better with her hair down. The boy tells this to G.
G leaves her hair down and it gets caught in the blender.
She is processing her emotions plus her thoughts about him acting out.
The other day, she sat down to write a poem, and pulled
Back her thin lines of time, and he went, wow. He told G he likes her
Better with her hair up now. In a bun, a ponytail, or two braids.
G could never say it, but she likes him with his hair all self-aware.
Hair that says thank you, and you look beautiful, but
You are the most beautiful beside me. G likes her boyfriend best
With kind hair. Straight and to the point hair. Newton’s law
of gravity hair. What goes up must come back down hair.
Isaac must have been staring at G’s straight, honey mane.
If G’s boy is not careful, Newton might steal his girl, but
G is concerned only with the words of Matthew, specifically
Matthew 5:5. The meek and gentle shall inherit the Earth. G reads
this to the boy. G hopes that the boy will love her like god loves her.
Counting and loving each hair on her head. G raises a thick, wild
Strand of hair up to the light and she sees right through it.
didn’t let him see her
looks well — settled in well
not seeing her — not agitated
only communicating with staff he likes
doesn’t like other residents therefore few activities
some men’s activities
looked well
eating, not depressed
———
busy marking this week
To write poetry is to keep watch
over your dwelling in a dark forest:
It isn’t often that some creature
catches your eye — most nights pass
without as much as a rustling in the trees.
But when it does, it grabs you, wrestles
you to the ground, and demands something of you.
Sometimes a few pennies, sometimes a warm meal,
and sometimes, it seems, your very life.
Sometimes it is the angel, holding you
by the hip, tenderly but with a strong grip,
and it is your great privilege to hold it tightly
and whisper sharply between your teeth,
I will not let go until you bless me.
And only when this scrappy bandit
of a creature is speaking the words over you
as you hold a knife to its throat
do you realize, as the morning sun
is finding its way through the trees,
that you are staring yourself in the face.