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.

Words You'll See

Like stop listening,
the yellow leaves,
and the lemon yellows.

You say it
like you know the answer
you know the rest

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.

Blue Lungs Trying

Here now, sweet,
desert heat, an oasis
of sun-blockers and pieced
vehicles: a matte motorcycle
like Los Angeles in the times.

Here at the beach,
the river bends
and our backs do,
nothing gold
except sweet jaws,
gold only the mango.

Here, sleeveless,
the children growing
up wild are they
piercing kidneys now
with their skin,
running scabby to death.

Here there's smoke here,
smoke here in the wind,
charcoal and sunglasses,
weekday mornings, casual
as holiday seashells.

Saturdays like the last of them
celebrating collections in our heart pieces
of what we value in the trees around us:
the leaves we can't get to.

Scrolling down of the truck's window
as a reset button to freest freedom:
the man carrying home the pieces to make breakfast,
right turns without looking

Five minutes to the store,
sins upon him, sins unto her like
-a year sloughing about outside of Mexico City-
fluency as heroism, as peace.

As twangy as lighting one cigarette
with the prior one, pine,
and then rocking back,
what is it, tucked away.

Forgive me mother, I have confessions
that I dissolve with the sun out here.

Now I know
the loquat tree

It's almost a song,
the echo of a song:

on the bat's back I fly
merrily toward summer

tasting the citrus,
peeling back the sweet skin
of March, sundowning outside

street lamps in the hills
above us, new canvas shoes
and baseball caps to honor one another

the grills billowing
moist heat in the night
we can watch it now

in full wonder,
revisiting the desert
at the hottest of times

relishing these epiphanic
entertainments and her fruits.



songs to survive the summer