Three Poems

Will I See You In September?

Unfurled t-shirts, happy in June!
At the end of September, I’ll be thirty-two.
I’m simply standing outside.
Small meows sound loud when your friends leave late.
That grey sky appeals to the sad inner self.
There is too much space here.
Logic can be applied to accidents as when,
midwinter, it made sense for my car to hit yours.
Bowls of leftovers dot the yard like dandelions.
Three t-shirts for every feeling on a Sunday!
I’m a little scared, but happy, & that’s yellow.
Rain on fall leaves & that’s yellow.
After the gusts, check each branch for breakage.
This sadness makes me want something warm in my hands.
I’m hoping for rain so the roots can spread.
I feel cramped, closed in & a little scared.
One small orange cat hissing.
I have nothing but sympathy for my wardrobe.
T-shirts folded all winter in drawers.
All night there are cats jumping off the fence.
That blue sky appeals to the sad inner self.
Which of two oranges should one peel?
Which of these two oranges should I peel?
These three chords seem like the right three chords.
I’m simply standing outside.
There are five cars parked in the street.
Passive fence posts hold out the nighttime breeze.
Exploding birthday cake!
A reflected bird soars across the coffee in my big mug.

T-shirts rustle in the October breeze.


You Might

You might step out into a crisp morning,
you might breathe in so deeply you inhale
all the sunlight & birds & the whole season.


You might be simply walking up the street
to get the morning coffee.  You might feel
great.  You might sweat out every single old fear


& you might smile all the time.  You might smile
in the dark.  You might breathe in the dark or
you might stop breathing in the dark to listen
to her breathing in the dark.  You might forget
the things you don’t remember so you try to remember.
You might forget.  You might forget.


You might touch your own ear three days later
& still feel that first tug of teeth.  You might hold
your fingers in front of your eyes & squint because


you might remember there are things you can’t
touch, there are things you can’t see anymore. 
You might dance yourself dizzy in the kitchen. 


You might not want to sleep but you might. 

You might forget.  You might forget.




Someone said azalea
& someone else said lily & I said


don’t make me choose they’re both so
pretty.  Faulty wiring blanks


the otherwise brightest bulb—
the longed-for, the hoped-for


& the expected all thwarted.  Someone
said zinnia.  The most adaptable


find other ways to plug in,
to throw light on the faces smiling


around them.  Someone said
chrysanthemum, no, lily; I’m sure—


lily.  Someone else said if we admit
our guilt, why make us say what we did.


Isn’t it easier to believe
our desserts are just?


I’m not really hungry
or I’m starving, it’s so hard to tell.


Then someone said azalea.  That’s the flower

you have pinned to your chest.



No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.