Song of Distraction

I love you I meant to write
But I instead fell to reading
Deep, deep into a mirror
And learning, just barely
Just a small idea
That I picked and scraped right off the glass
Off my skin itself
And examined curiously.

Infused with dallying light
I held it for about 7 or 8 minutes
And it was curved sheen crystal of black green white
Brightly rippling violently out
In dramatically ordered form
Impressive from here
With a surely amazing view

And yes,
The shapes are becoming more distinct now
Its nicely suspended above the glass
Supported in all directions
Braced against the aether
Until I pluck it and it rushes weight
To my hand and I feel the ocean entire
The beachhead swallowed whole
In cold sleeping and sudden waking
I remember I meant to write
And I hand over the approximations of you I have picked.

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Seasonal Song

This is not to you.
This is of you as much as it is of me
And of the oceans and vast expanses
Of cliched languages and worn, tired words
Forged each time anew
In the same enough way
Until the steady, insistent fires
Of hammer after hammer of feeling
Leave a broken casing of intent
The thought worth more
Than the useless coined word
Now a ruined currency
Mourned only by the sentimental
Hopping through metaphor
Praying with conviction for enough to die or forget
So their love can bloom truly again,
Thawed from frost after frost
Like they said your roses would
If you would only have patience for Spring
And not fall in love in September.

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Prudence

The tree is leaning away from the house
In an act of photosynthetic genius.
Survival: it is too tall by now
Its leaves are too high up to be noticed
Their ceiling discrete enough
More discrete, at least
Than the ivy floor
Lain neatly centered around the tree
Symmetry unnoticed by tired pedestrians
They only see the roots cresting
And so it seems like an upside-down
And dangerous tree
Leaning towards the house.

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