Cicadas worry the heat from the bark.
Who am I to say where you are tonight
When gloaming’s slow folding unbuckles
Into night? The moon, only twenty minutes
From being a vague figure for lust, is now keen
song on a blade and without warning
Crickets and tree frogs push the black train
Forward. We all hear that same sound.
I know I will never completely reach you
And I know I will never leave you.
What that leaves us is the only word the
Screech owl knows before the circumstance
Of light floods across your lips and the sun
stumbles forward at the height of a man’s mind.
End of summer moon poem 1
Each night’s just an evening long
why should it feel like you are lost forever
just because I cannot see you where
I am looking but this overcast between us
lasts longer than reflection
When October’s morning glories trumpet our loss, you run.
When the day’s color concedes itself to leaves, you run.
When the earth rotates against you, you run harder.
When the earth changes its mind about you
and carries you along with it, you run faster.
When the skein of pain tightens across your thighs,
you run more. When our hands tell the time
in the dead hours where memory is sand,
you pull me from the bed and two hundred feet
below the earth by the gorge’s lasting stream we run.
When the moon flows like the reflection
it is, you run across the river of stars and your feet
do not splash against the night. Because the night
is as shallow as a puddle and you are as light
as the reflection of streetlights above you, and as still as you are
in the soul of my sleep, ahead of the curve of memory, you run.
Lines Stolen From a Private Letter Neither Fully Deleted Nor Fully Sent
Selflessness can consume you, too.
We are birds signaling across a migration
started in different seasons. Insistent longing,
unsigned wind, eternity’s caution tape.
When my own name is a blur
to me, yours will be a bell.