Town

Remember that bar up the street,
parking lot teens, patio furniture,
crooked pine trees, broken architecture.
We glanced around, found the corner seat—
Was this the place no other could beat?
(Girls without groove, that gap-toothed creature,
the smell of stale cigarettes and wheat
beer on my shoe.) We had no closure
with friends we found. We now forgot
how many miles of dirt we fought
through to be here—this quiet town
bypassed so many times. Meandering around
vacant ranches at midnight just to find
a point where the road unwinds. 

Bad Weather

We hid in a bathroom
when the lighting came

          it smelt like horses
          and muggy rain

the hay caught my boot
and I imagined a good day
      
          befriending dogs
          and strangers

making the most of it
knowing we could not stay.

I Saw a Canoe

Inside was a man eager
to escape and I asked if I could
take him where he wanted to go.

"Can you leave a poor man alone?"

he shouted turning with disgrace

then whistled away—those rotting cheekbones.

The echo turning me back to the porch
in darkness where I saw no trace
of a man or a boat ever going.

Proximity

Left with spaces that lay between

your eyes, connecting dots around, 

trying to imprint them in mine— 

Be a photographer. Keep it. 

Store on a shelf to catch the dust—

the perfume, the flesh in your cheeks.

Wait for the hues to saturate, 

the streaks of stringy blonde to fade.

The Word

animosity
seems convenient

the way it falls
off the tongue

groups of tiny letters
with swords

rushing towards her
always her.

Collectables

There's something about collectables
how they take form on a shelf 
like still life. 

The glass jug sits empty for months
but you barely notice
the story long forgotten.

Plans

I asked the boy if he had any plans
      for the winter season
and he replied passionately

about the annual vacation he took
      with his family
and how the weather stayed warm

at the beach house, where a dozen gathered
      around a living room,
scattered in small groups.

Images of them kept coming up,
      the uncles laughing, old records playing,
white sand glistening.

The only complaint he spoke about
      made me understand that twenty is an old age
to follow tradition

and I nodded my head,
      with no hesitation
but wondered how frozen the grass would be, here.