Driving

under drying skies, north,
passing fields
the summer has been too wet
to turn brown,
i wait for God
to appear, for poems to rise
like mists, for some sort
of ever

that doesn’t sting.
croon to me like a wild road,
sunlight spider-webbing
across a cracked windshield
across strange arms
across a morning we can all afford
to spend and live
and live.

the poem from the water

somewhere around day nine
or ten
it all falls apart,

one of those days where you can’t
face the world with straight
eyes and there’s nothing

for it but to drive right at the sun, right
as it sets, like some
old cowboy in some old movie

off to some damn
rescue. or
to pray

the night holds
its own in borrowed starlight til
you can reach the river

and the morning sun
coming down through the first
of the new leaves.

trace footprints in wet sand.
tell yourself he loves you.
fish the poem from the water.

rejection letter

there is alchemy
in my blood; it draws
you like wildfire, indifferently.
my words build the bridges
your absence pulls down;
while i connect the stars like needlepricks
between synapses, mapping
consciousness and constellations
with the electricity of a penstroke,
you sleep pressed tight
against the cottony pillow
of paper dreams.  i am the
metaphysical mistress
to the truths you never knew,
the quiet rejoinder
to all the hopes you ever surrendered.
if one day our tongues meet
across a coffee table or a revolution
don’t speak to me of love poetry:
i prefer your bitter
silence and the offbeat
of brokenhearted arrhythmia.