High Trees

I am terrified recently
of the wind;

the way it sends my thoughts
wandering
into high branches.

I can't reach those heights,
can't get them back
to save my life.

When did I find myself
so alone?

I think it was the moment
I let myself become
your trunk.

In Gray

massachusetts in april:
the steady fall of rain,
gray skies
and aching sun

i want to watch you bloom before me
tulips and irises
calla lilies and crocuses

new life seeps from your seams,
pours through in seeds and stamen.

this place is not for me, i think

watching umbrellas parade down main street
the lonely sun waits below the equator
shores peep out from the
cracks of her clouds
searching with opal eyes the earthen nights

and finding april alone,
in gray.

Last Touch

and our last touch was long and sad
as a thunderstorm
in mexico

i can hear you in these cold winds
and thank spring
that you are leaving

Providence

I.
light peels away winter’s veil;
tall sycamores against autumn sun
and your rough hands through the bends
of this dun grove.

II.
it is November and already the city floods
with snow. we stand outside the small café,
woolen coat from
Paris framing your
broad shoulders, a shadowy Adonis in this
cold
Providence.

III.
in April, the dogwoods will bloom on
Thayer Street. your tattered boots sleeping
on the doorstep and the sun blooming
against old glass windows;
the quiet light of spring sorrow.

IV.
the elbows of my corduroy have worn smooth
and I hold your side as he last leaf of autumn passes on.

Trees Worry

trees worry
destitute and fallen
like I worry
and they fall
tall and lonely
like I fall
from the top down
tearing
at the seams

The Snow Melts Slow


the snow melts slow,
drips cold on limestone walls.
my eyes tear, a sharp glow

as in blistering wind,
when soft cheeks harden to raw pink
and porcelain buds begin

to crack their silent ways
along the inside of icicle earth.
dim winter haze

gives way to young sun,
her soft fingers against cracked dawn.
a morning unspun—

your threadbare sweater
lying across the armchair,
and the fresh clover

in your spring kitchen.
the snow melts slow,
white spring of birchen woods,

tall grasses that rise
beyond the yellow farmhouse
and the soft buzz of green flies

swarming around my ears.
the smell of soil from my fingernails
and your garden glove among the bulbs.

In Bed Alone

and where has february taken us?
this is a season of grays and lukewarm air,
and I am lost in myself, this unraveling dress.

how did we find ourselves in this bend? at the top of
twenty third street, far from the winding village
of abandoned picnics and lost wine. far from

the soft wind of our darling soho and rebel east village;
avenue A where we walked in the gutter, side by side

towards corners of hollow rooms and shallow
kisses. I could taste the salt in that river air
and I could smell the ocean on your breath.

it was in the virgin grass of that hot spring,
the rise of your chest, the cracked paths and
puddled sidewalks; I was

a cage without a bird, breasts hollow
and knees bent crashing, in bed alone.
and you were no more than my quiet dream.