Poetry

Constant

We walked side by side between planets,

watched their oceans swell and fall

into stardust, theorizing how Saturn’s rings

may be its core

after its writhing energy tore out

to form its own globe.

 

The stars can be seen during day on Mercury,

but I can see them at any time I wish

in your eyes.

Our markers held well over the year,

the beats sounded and shook me giddy.

 

In the grain of that bench under the maples,

our echoes will reside forever.

 

Poetry

Heat Haze

In the heat of summer,

when our throats

are thirsty, eyes unfocused,

sweat clinging to every part,

we hear the hum, loud as an engine

by our ear. It is the fly,

humble, persistent and even

happy in a group.

We often think of flies as dirty

deeply unclean

and unnecessary things,

disregarding

their role in decomposition.

From decomposition

comes nourishment

for the ground, the spark of growth

and life.

Perhaps that is why the fly

makes such a to-do

about its buzz.

Poetry

A slight roll.

Heads on shoulders:

pebbles atop broken

rocks,

half-carved into

torsos, arms, necks.

They roll down the ravine.

Suicide, you would think.

It’s not.

Instead – life.

A chip here,

a dent there.

They reach the bottom

battered.

Some unrecognizable.

They reach the bottom.

No longer caring

to go back to the top.