my
wasnt enough
to be
what we call
such names
such violence
clouds of defined friends
cannot
be so
driving him home
a kiss
not before untouched but
trying to leave
to flee
cant wake his parents
that would be wrong
wrong and wrong as i was wrung
blocked and back onto
hard (to sleep)
no rest
for the putrid word
i cannot say sits
wicked inside
me
we should carefully
and wholly consider
who we choose to honour
who we praise and chisel into place
not that they did no big thing
but that
they may have done many in the dark
and they may not look
so statuesque in the light
any small quebec town in july
salt fat air
vinegar
asphalt, sand, any in between
the sea and the sidewalk
cicadas humming
or zambonis
trucks of kinds
ice cream
logging
pickup
a simple thing
as small as a stick of gum
financially
in a field of flowers
and a single thought
grew into question
a thing too silent
too heavy
to ignore
to handle
so one ran one way
the other stood still
and in between
they grew
I.
march sometimes is muddying every shoe even if it might be shit
but all dirt smells that way this month
it could be halloween
seagulls circle parking lots like cars looking for parking
spots in the sky
march not yet april
windbreakers and damp pavement and then sun shoulders through
birds and engines waking up
at once
hastily preparing
running late for spring
II.
rain on hot june days
leaves a smell tasting of old spoons
worms and a placid lake
water spiders skating over bass
seaweed tickling their bellies
clay and the clams tucked in
the musk of soil and sand
basement floors
the sirens starting
sound like a loon
a wail over the water
crying in the dark
cherries blast
the birds anticipate winds
of change and
pain alone
flowers are a burden
to be thrown musty and sick
ripped epitaphs
sorry for your loss
soil soggy stuck in muck
thank you
from a muddy mouth
