Say 'Wisconsin,'

and listen to me flutter
it's been a little while now

I know it well and it evades me--
provocative March, what is this
you're tying the phones lines with?

Your better side is a frozen beer
bottle, Mendota side,
a relic of the floating big dive.

Even with your Northwoods,
even Bon Iver singing from them,
where do you want to go from here?

The snowmobiles are out again,
moist all over, small signs in the woods--
I would be inside with a fire.

Swelling with radishes out here,
plum blossoms in this dense grey,
you draw me in, you drive it away.

These green leaves,
now red and orange,
are changing like I'd
change for you.

We have been thought to be basic,
I have been taught to say

what do I know except mornings
yes I see it your way.


Bowing to the absences,
I want your raindrops

on my forehead

and your trees

down my arms too

for these berries, these intimations

another October, my skills

at rolling up a sleeping pad,

the space on my arm, are for you.

From Blue Lungs Trying

V. Coastal education
gradual like distressing
these front gates.

Thinking small vices
up at Deep Creek,
wearing feathers,
pockets,
wind,
earrings,
sparklers

that's a storm! no,
it's a photograph
of worship

the smell of rain
in this time of wanting
and soft spring,
palm branches,
residual morning wind,
how to procure honey.

What was true here, stairs,
I give to you glitter for your ground,
the stones you'll come
to cherish, tomato juice.

I see turtles floating,
you hear horns outside;
we think the same thing

like stop listening,
water for your eyes
the yellow leaves,
and the lemon yellows.

You say it like you know
the answer you know the rest
and yet
flies inside today,
attracted to the specks,
are charming up the place a bit.

I can walk away to the mountain
and drive away to the sea
and it's only summer yet.

these days fly away

like blades of grass

Weekdays

A beauty of youth
is burning into the fire,
waking up.

Looking back into the spring,
springing our bones
into the street.

I was built to cry
on Sundays:
movies into sunsets.

I see turtles
floating, you hear horns outside.
We think the same thing.

Pouring Over

We house anticipation
to match the water set to boil
and await our coffees
to bring it all together again.

Things are okay for us
all over the years
things are okay enough
to not mention in letters.

Coffee is up and we clamor
to share this time, over,
like we used to outside,
like we would on the porch.

We would sit then in the morning,
legs crossed and sincere, cigarettes burning,
our tree that we never thought about,
but loved nonetheless, shielding us.

We are not smoking now
and should be hugging
but for the years, but for
coping without one another.

It’s okay, of course,
because things are okay
and we even spill about
dreams coming true, seeing.

Our empty cups lay
next to one another,
rings aged calmly like our eyes
and it’s good to be together.