Kill the dull echo

I woke to adolescent longing for her
or at least how I imagine her to be.

And though I trained myself to drift
in hollow desire, I'm feverish now for a cure.

So I kill the dull echo of my twin bed
by forming my lips to whistle

a dream song more cheerful in its lust
like an open convertible in summer.

The road melts my tires and resolve
and I remember her again.

I wouldn't have expected

I wouldn't have expected your hair to turn that color
of the north hill when it bloomed and pollinated
too early in the year.

I knew, though, the grass stains
from tackling old friends around the RC airplane field
would endure till now.

The soil has been kind for catching me
and I haven't learned to expect your newness.

Bread and tea

The girl across the room
absentmindedly
put her arm between her legs,
held her thigh, leaned forward,
and laughed.

I took a bite of bread,
finished my tea,
and left.

Lighthearted #3

Cataloged in your history between your first move
and your last taste of espresso, my hardback volume
loses pages each month, and I thank the years for passing.

In the expanse of ruined neighborhoods, we had a laugh
at the peace we found a couple thousand miles
from our conflicts—the admitted relief of escape.

I thought the cosmos was born between a dashboard
and the rear windshield's heated lines,
but your condensation drawings dried in the summer.

I grew up the way you'd expect: with the stories
of strangers, with the sharp climate of new cities.
I heard a soldier tell of leaving his wife and family.

I heard myself reconstruct the past as it flickered
through the subway window. So I left it underground
and tasted the universe like I hadn't before.

Lighthearted #2

You woke when my car coughed, and
you tripped up the steps while I drove.
You said it's easier to have no hope
than to have two and choose.
You said it comes down to how
much gasoline I can afford.

I set you a place for dinner, and
I set a record for getting home.
I said the winter only comes rarely
and now it's ours to own.
I said there's room by the hearth,
where I burn my books for heat.

You said the best part of saving
is spending it all in the end.
You said the best part of staying up
is the orange morning light.
You broke an egg, broke the quiet
and said no more highway.

Lighthearted #1

After 25 ounces of 2009 wine,
you told me it's not healthy to drink
by yourself, so I opened a new one
to drink for us both.

When my eyes shut, you said,
"Don't bother coming home."
Half asleep, I said, "This is my house,
and we don't live together."

You said, "In the morning I'll be gone."
In the dark I laughed and said
"I know, but when you get off work
come see me again."

You slept, I hiccuped, and the rain
filled my car. I bit my tongue
to keep from singing
then I slept too.

When I awoke

When I awoke,
a gold hair wrapped around my ear,
across my neck, and into my mouth.

I had half a mind
to wind it around a house key and say
"Here's the rest of you, come back and see me."

Instead, I shook peace
over breakfast with a spoonful of cinnamon
and lay down in the grass to doze again.

So I dreamt
of the Argonaut and a fleece, I set
full sails and flung my sheets starboard.

When I awoke,
the story was unwrapped over me,
and I laughed with my new purpose.

I found you
on a porch swing and we were lifted
into the open sea all morning.

I said, "I have no idea
where my retold odyssey will lead,
but I love this Ithaca."

You leaned back
to rest your head, "Ithaca
also must travel."

I was afraid

I was afraid to have half a purpose
like the bed sheets of a priest
but you just asked if I'd be back
by dinnertime at least.

I said I'm sorry I lost my way
and that my voice is going hoarse
but you gave me a smile
and pointed me back north.

I said I can drive you out of town
and bake your favorite bread
you laughed and said you didn't care
as long as we got fed.

I was quiet Monday morning
while I learned about myself,
but without plan you took my hand
and put the book back on the shelf.