I am not a scientist, pretty baby

And all the constellations, shine down for us to see
And if you don't believe me, just put your hands on me

Don’t quote me on the physics of it all,
but I know the lightweight innards
the crackling, fibrous bones
of a dove, or a bird like it, make for
an easier flight, than say, perhaps, you or I.
That doesn’t mean it’s impossible
blue sky world.
I’m content to befriend
the pattern of lines spinning about your ceiling.
Eyes closed
as you drift conspicuously back toward
the weight of the floor.

Irregardless

The hollowed out insides of a pretty
little thing like yourself
as permanent to me as the moments
unprompted, you smile.

She wanted to be a cowboy, an ode to Lisa Loeb's "Falling in Love"

See, you’re just like everyone else
temporary
and
at once inevitable.
Let me give you an example…

Finding a baby bird
broken on the sidewalk
is very different
than watching one tumble from the nest.
Both still referred to as
fledglings.

Stones

When Virginia Woolf sank herself in a river,
no one blamed the stones.

Today, I wonder how she chose which
rock(s) to stack inside her pockets.
I want weight,
balanced, consuming my palm
anxious
to meet the crest of river water--
I’m certain she was less particular.
Stack, baby girl, stack
how intimate the artist and death.

Most days I want to leave

A morning: wandering through churches--
light, through Chagall’s stained glass
tinting your face different shades
of adoration. There is a red scene
coming, blush.

An afternoon: The Bride
Stripped Bare
by Her Bachelors,
Even. Try to look away.
That reaction, what is it?
Tell me more.

Twenty dollars: we’re poets
baby, your money is worthless.

Some days I want to save her

“I would like to stab someone,” she muses.
“Just once. Maybe a dead person.”
And
if not for the turn
the pull
if not for the lift
or the slide
if not for the
empty
resting, sadness
rounding out
the sharp
air (exhale)
I might feel
Fear.

Little Moon

Orbits are the result of a perfect balance between the forward motion of a body in space and the pull of gravity on it from another body in space.


Orbit, little moon
the million tiny breaths
of her sweeping exhalation
her body bending
from crown
to blade, and be still, against the quiet
pull of her sigh.