.
saturday stretched across decades, snapping in
around memories better left dormant,
one hour as long as the drawn gun lifting
to point, the sigh and quickly
missed lunge.
some thoughts own every space left
between seconds, claiming a self
well lost, inviting
redemptive desire –
that impossible movement
of forgiveness, yet
never granting that which be so
desperately
needed.
.
what a day –
drinking tea at the
table, windblown snow rising
outside the glass.
.
asphalt underlies so many
memorable longings and
madrid, montalban;
empty highway ninety-five
soaked in restless
sunlight and angry
ranchers’ dissatisfaction.
my roads, lift upon
.
lift, shift against a
subbase poorly laid.
asphalts stretch, alligator
thin skins a clever tease… my
roads do not run on and on.
my roads do not
wear out because they explode.
basrah loops as a flash
bright as cordite,
one fox running all out, one
tree out there waiting.
.
asphalt just lifts.
my road fountains and settles
back whole just in time to lift again,
disintegrating and settling, silently
and again, loops of exploding
asphalt.
.
how I
at times do long for
the men known, dead now or those
not quite dead, still here.
.
Your fear of water pulled me up
by my hair, thumb on throat
ready to press and a look in your eye
that I ignored knowing. I bet
that usually works.
.
You boys wear your war
like four stars, three
for wounds, one
for the good measure
of the victim you insist
upon conducting.
I know a woman
reeling post-traumatic stress
across three states. They
call a man’s armed combat
and we call hers family.
She didn’t get to go home
when her tour was over.
.
I laughed at your thumb
ready to kill me and
your cold eyes
light years away.
You boys, always insisting
your games are bigger
and harder
or meaner.
You are always
more interesting
to yourselves and I have
never feared water
in any form.
.
orphan poems 