A Rush

dogs chasing that car down
& children grabbing at birds as they fly by—
& even more chasing & trapping inside themselves—
what do they expect to have when they’re done?
a mouthful of wheel? a handful of feathers?
a faceless figure of authority
telling them maybe next time?
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 frozen from its reddish bone;
red shirt hanging in the closet;
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 levelling out
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 any alternate activity.

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