gone our ways

there is a fence that sits alone,
above a mild hill, over windy bursts of waving grass,
wild and unruly,
no one comes here anymore.
it is better that way perhaps
since the elderly wood has been
eaten away by years of solitude,
years of slow remembrance
and the old house and fields sit too quietly
since we’ve left them here,
parted ways into the noise of the world
the complexities and clutter of being.

there are no ghosts here
where we made a second home on the fence,
our secret spot for secrets and small wisps
of muffled laughter.
we are gone our ways
but I am still listening to silent footsteps of escape in the night,
still whispering untold truths among the wind.

afraid of the average

Why was it difficult for me to see you
even from far away?
from the distance of (let’s say) a rooftop
to a sidewalk
or out of a dirty, blurry window on
an immensely rainy day. With the shades down.

Why is it that I dislike the very thought of you
passing by somewhere near me
even if I can’t see you?
Even if there is a
boulder the size of a house between us
and my left eye twitches, my hands tremble out of
an admiration that someone so
normal
so
regular
so
plain
as you, could make me so afraid.

There are footprints in the sand where I was, walking towards the bridge after the sun’s light had completely disintigrated. In the distance I could see the flickering lights on the highway, hear the faint roaring of speeding cars and the blushes of smitten couples. My brother and his son paced, hand-in-hand, searching for the optimal swimming spot. The wet sand sank, melted around my feet. The water lapped up against me, and the skirt I was attempting to save from salt water dragged, wet of course, around my ankles. My futile attempts to stay dry when at the beach.

day dream

I have left behind
crisping leaves
frozen in a pool of november rain
and december frost. i ingest cold air
exhale a letter with my three fingers,
middle, index, thumb
while i wait in line outside the dress shop i outline shapes
of foreign flowers in my notebook
and listen to foreign
music in my mind. i breathe out the heat
in my bones and leave them
shivering to the beat of egyptian wedding drums
I worry about what to wear that will
keep me warm while we order the bride’s bouquet,
will my letter be done by the time
i am meant to give it as a gift,
and will my dress have been sewn together
or still be in tatters.