Gripping the edge of the fabric
I smooth it with nothing but my knees no
Other weight pressing down against the fat
Dough of the floor little pinches
Of skin mold themselves so quickly
To the dull side of surfaces
An edge so fragile I am distracted
Forgetting why wrinkles matter but smoothing
Them anyway barely audible singing
Reinforces a sense of gravity between
Breaths the sun touches me
Through my shirt now passing
Over my face the warm feeling
Of something struggling
Still alive in its efforts
What is moving
I will ask myself again
As a child mimics the wide steps of his shadow
My mother calls to say I don’t need what
Most people need no time
To pick the socks off the floor I call this love
Hauling my legs across the street until
The motion steadies watching the leaves to see what they collect
Something Tells You to Look (Elegy)
Maybe I can tell you about
This part of the house.
It used to be a beach.
This is where the tide came in.
This is where the sand hardened and
Turned a dark muddy-brown.
A seagull was burrowed in a dry patch of grass,
She was old and spotted
And maybe sick, and I carried
Her muteness inside me
When I walked the length of it one last time.
Now the people here wear giant sun hats
So they are always in costume,
Blocking the sun.
It is the sun I can’t write.
It is a bright thing
I hide from as it scatters
And passes through every wall.
You can base your whole life on something
That doesn’t know you exist.
It will not understand why you squint your eyes,
Why you whittle yourself down
To the shape of stalks,
Wait for the wind to tell you
The things leaving you are here.