Dear poet,

i learned a new word today,
and the earth smells like a fresh wound
where tiny waves lick the riverbanks,
catastrophizing early spring.

sometimes the guilt is gone for a moment,
and eternities blunted by the marks
of sharp scissors. your questions
i carve into the shape of april:

if we shine lights on the moon,
is the starglow indifferent?
if we make dents in the mattress,
does that make this just

another lust poem?

Remembering Hal and Gail

island sunset with girl

looks younger
in love.

we haven’t been
there much,
lately. i count

feet around
your coronaries,

the hard-ish wrinkles
over my veins.
we need more red,

part-sun days,
thornless. river-

mud between
our toes, not
rose but rust-gold

fingered lenses
through which

all the world
seems wetter and
better for it,

like spring,
like summer
in a mirror

in a cabin
on a side street
by the ocean, yes.

looks younger
in love.