284/365

sunday afternoon
at fifteen seventy six.
ninteen ninety six?
the algebra of memory
rarely solved. laying
in the back yard,
under tender sun,
the three of us.
hair golden.
skin bronzed
lost in blades of grass
and dead lyrics:

please don't
be surprised
when you find
me dreaming too.

we’ll ride wild
horses in the hills.
i’ll clumsily take you
to that spinning restaurant
in the city. driving
across the bridge.
scratched cds
the soundtrack
of youth.

i’ll profess a love
i’ll never be capable
of delivering-
i want them if they want me-
is the saddest lyric i whisper
at dawn. the sun coming up
from the couch. the iron woodstove
burns quietly. bodies scattered
in aftermath.
 
soon i’ll head south and this
tiny spark will flicker and fade
like a firefly dying in a jar.
an ember floating too high
embraced by enough
oxygen to obliterate us.

66/365

not much to rage against these days:
the machine feels quiet and non-threatening
the dying of the light still years away.

the hush of middle-aged
security and privilege
feels like false fodder
for anything consequential.

but, why is the folklore
so burdened with affliction?

why can’t the new bloom
of the bougainvillea be enough?
the turn of the pot
the pruning of dead branches
the tiny green leaves
pullulating with impetus.

the faintest changes
on a placid surface
can cause perpetual ripples

if i knew the way
i would take you home,
or so the song
has been saying
since before i was born.