in the kitchen, the hyacinth
finally begins to open, its fragrance
still subtle & not enough
to cover the bitter almond
april stain. we are eight days in,
now, & you go better without
me every hour. I don’t know
if the herons will come back;
I should have remembered how it felt
to sleep beside you unwanted.
this is the second poem this morning;
it goes well with burnt espresso.
every hour there is less of me
to love, but at least it is my choosing.

the loneliness of train whistles

tracks over Mayo
the loneliness of train whistles
has been known
to keep us up at night.

when there is moon,
we play hopscotch
on  old sidewalks

with chalked silhouettes
of desire. when there is not,
we walk white-footed the rails

by the river, counting
darks between shadows
until the sun

comes and grows and
our backs bend too heavy
so we turn them

from the creosote-soaked
tang of the city
to dig holes in dry dirt,

filling them up
with all the weight
of emptiness.

mind-body separation

my focus, my head
melted like bubble-gum
on a summer pavement, stuck,
fucked by the
catch in my throat,
of your breath,
the taunt of the air
insistent not in every instant,
but every now
and again
pregnant with your smell,
your curve and angle,
hair a curtain of redemption
drawing down, down
on what remains
to me of
myself, whispering
that this is not quite
what Descartes had in mind.