My lover drinks tea in the evening,
Because it calms him. Because its simple
Because it’s made of the earth and he feels empty of the dirt
Sometimes when he’s been reading up on politics and pain.
Because he’s made of the earth and he remembers
A motherland; a lifetime from here.
My lover drinks tea in the evening because he’s not native,
He’s not bitter about Boston and what we dumped in the bay.
He drinks tea, biting and oversteeped, like the desert
Night lit clouds implying a sandstorm of stars.
My lover drinks tea in the evening and I wonder why it is
Two people can put water to dust and not call it magic.
He’s merely my lover,
It’s just tea
I am a paper cup on a string
Serenaded by breezes
These are the words of the wind in my ear.
A paper cup on a string.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking of home.
Of where the cord leads, where the whispers go.
Fed wire side into a mason jar with a cotton cloth lid.
Checkered and still smelling of plums.
Sifted through a salt shaker in the far corner table
Of the old pizzeria down south side by the freeway.
With the damp underside of an envelope
Bringing gestures of greetings long-forgotten.
I am a paper cup on a string.
And suddenly I’m not sorry I can’t keep a secret
Not sorry to wear the word like a weave
Beleiving then it was a worry to send whispers home…
Home again home again zip like amnesia. I am
A paper cup on a string. And this is home. We are going home.
Some are meant to climb trees—I suppose—when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. I meant to climb this tree (as so often before) and peer
out between leafy spyres, what dire distress it was to see studious insects bout their business,
too busy to disturb. Instead settled among the short hairs of summer sod, soaking in sap splinters &
cinder soil until the sun sauntered past the skyline and we were alone. The tree and I
a port of my soul settling deeper still to this spot where I’ll leave her. Neither of us ready to go.
Her roots more literal, of course, but mine just as sturdy, we would part; But I would
plant the seeds of my sincerity in such a space as to grow between the bows
to drown myself in sunlight and keep right where I left off, a bookmark of my better days.
White all white, but white when it pretends to be yellow
a mustard fellow putting on airs declares
white caps of pretence on its plainer self.
Where else it may begin, below the calm
a storm of sentiment along the white whirling spheres
what hears the water come, a thumb on the rod
Of a well-oiled brush, with rush rounding our sounds
of yellow borrowing blue from the grey
come stay your eyes on a spatter here, a red
Run rattling on the eye, so shy some could call it calm
but lower still the truth tracks color on the canvass
a crass brass last attempt at sunlight, yellow all along.
Come crawl the window-still between the beams
Of light and night. Whip curtains to the sun
With stunts of crooked weaves and leaves, for now.
Rest. For now, be free to seize the grass roots
And soak their light, tonight your tender heart
Unfolds fern hands against a garden rod
Embrace the sod between toes and fingers
What tinkers there, meant for no mere mortal.
Spin reeds from weeds, button seeds in the earth
And know how the loom rows in the darkness.
No more cancer, no more cures. Your words are
Palms beneath mountains shoving them to peak
We speak of greatness from the ground what sound
Your soul that sows your linger’d love to life.
A cucumber could not taste as sweet
As filature along a forgotten breeze
Coaxing chatter of weather and what-not
Across eddies—ever eager spring—comes grass.
From eye level the deep trodden grass colors
Summerness; becomes the pressure on elbows
straining this afternoon’s sweet-sour sage
On a sunbeam preferring patches by the hour.
Watch the call of autumn opals oppress
The downy undress of arbor limbs unfold.
Ticking tedious the tremble of traitor leaves.
For now it is verbena on the lawn… for now.
I can remember coming home to post-it notes
clinging calmly to lamp shades, docked to doorknobs
And when I collected them all in a pile I signed
Imagining all summer where they might be hidden
where you might tuck them away, what color pens
you would choose to scribe over and over
I love you I love you I love
A quiet reflection, with each smoothed in my hands
fumbling with the frailty of love, paper love lingers
smooth to the touch like egg shells; impossibly cool.
Love is the prettiest word to behold on a post-it.
Sad to see them bundled together, more self piteous than sad.
I love you I love you I love… afternoons post, opening drawers;
emptying boxes, rearranging shoes harboring hideaway post-its
Held quite still, clutching the confetti between my fingers,
this paper, this love, hinged on hangers, crumpled in corners
boarded in book ends: not infinite, not over yet.