poems
it’s a good thing you aren’t very happy
the cloud cover looks much too deep
for aiming to sail
over the moon
and land in one giant leap
unless melancholy makes jumping
around like a mad kangaroo
over a star or
around planet Mars
sound like a smart thing to do
you’ll never find me
where everything makes sense
where the foliage gets dense
shaded all the time
from the microwaves and heat
you’ll snap twigs under your feet
and i’ll know to hide
or lunge to save the secret
in the petrichor and rot
where you’ll never find me
to stretch your arms out and spin
to breathe in and breathe back out again
what an absolute disaster to be stuck on the ground
with you, mostly
with the gasping, breathing, heaving
when there exists an up there,
with air
worth the gasping, breathing, heaving
I hope flowers don’t get itchy
or get allergies to bees
I hope they just feel nice for weeks
and then
peacefully
transmogrify
into 100 other flowers
to have 1000 other weeks
to be generally comfortable
and never need to sneeze
Could I hide here? Just for a minute.
Until the rain quiets down. Until sun comes back. Until it gets a bit warmer. Until the ground dries. Until the coast is clear. Until I can breathe. Until it’s safe. Until I’m ready.
Or at least until you fall apart.
it’s a storm
it’s a storm
it’s a storm that we’re in
it’s a beautiful breeze and a terrible sneeze and a sweeping unknowing
and blowing
only for minutes and then you forget
there were storms
but it’s custom so they fuse into one
you can put into a bottle
and sell at a sum
to let it lose later
in moments and episodes
back rooms and bed forts
and under umbrellas
during a storm
Sometimes there is purple and then sometimes there are purples
and purples and purples and purples
and you can call them other things but they are still purples
Sometimes I think the sky can’t think of it’s own colors and steals them from the ground cover
from gutters and lovers and clovers
and only rarely are her colors not from others