A Rush
dogs chasing that car down
& children grabbing at birds as they fly by—
& even
what do they expect to have when they’re done?
a mouthful of
a faceless figure of
things rush by endlessly—
it’s the calm they really fear
Making Up?
Is it my fault that
your life feels like a short walk
out into the snow
and, even now,
new flakes fall
to cover up your footsteps?
I’m still absorbed with red:
red pajamas covering
red after-shower skin;
red meat in the refrigerator,
red drip
red ceramics, telephones,
even the dog more red than brown.
But not you,
not your pale face
pressed against the window,
sharing with the glass
how white your breath.
Not with today’s snow
piling up on yesterday’s snow
and your space
between the snows
thinning.
We need to hug but
burning fear?
frozen rage?
sound good to me
but should we risk it?
In Its Early Years
Love could not
align itself
with logic
so it became
enjoyment
pure and simple
with a nod, now and then,
to therapy
before
and convincing its practitioners
that the experience
was valuable in its own right
and its pleasures,
its surety, its healing properties,
could not be obtained
from
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