Walking, Noontime, on a Warm Ides of March, Spring Having Arrived A Week Early
So much easier these days to appear middle-aged!
Moon’s out walking too – only its topmost perimeter,
frosted white, is visible in this nearly spring blue noon sky.
Maybe that’s how I’m seen today
as I pass through quiet intersections:
almost invisible but for the borders of my graying temples.
Note: one of a series of poems with the same title, to be scattered throughout a larger project called The Drift.
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written
I just spoke to the miles
they have no intention
of coming between us
but cannot get out of
the way so I looked up
the towers of clocks could
count the ways to keep us
together but not give back
even a moment spent
without you so I tried
boxing the yearbooks folded
the distance into my back
pocket even the intentions
bad and good wanted to help
but could not make up their minds
so I asked sleep sleep forgave me
I’m not sure for what but having
removed it all walked with you
wide awake beneath swallows and oak
humming these lines as I forget them