splinters of conversing

we were older then
than we are now

but that doesn't matter.

we sat on fences.
splinters in our back pockets
undiscovered

until tinted august
ended.

so triumphantly
she passed.

it doesn't matter
that there is no rain

anymore.

we are more fresh
than ever
before.

what is good

I will not eat dinner with Sam

he eats bread I baked

with cane sugar I picked

and yeast I carved out

the sides of mountains

that rain.

I chop wood

for the pleasure

and talk to window washers

not to patronize

but to inquire

about their history

as window washers

and men.

they yearn to live

as I do,

freely,

and all they are doing

is washing windows

for widows

who never bake them

bread

but instead

smudge the windows

again

with nosy noses

that they use

to peek into the

hen

house.

friend of friends

I have not seen you

since you

have begun hiding

in

forests

where tears sway low—

snakes on branches.

you are bitten

I am bitten

you are responsive

and suck out venom

spit it into

piles that grow into

words

sentences

dictionaries

novels

epic tales

an odyssey

of western adventure

all from the poison

that we insisted would be

good for our soul

but what is good for the

soul except

baked bread

and poems?

more red than murder

wisps
of wheat-blonde hair.
your icy eyes protrude from
South Carolina hills,
eyes colder than
water we guiltlessly
slip into.

I hold you, an envelope,
to the eye-colored sky.
search in vain for a name
on enclosed lined paper.

the ground here
is more red than murder.

two blinks from your
eyelids -
camera shutters -
a photo I will not see.

adult sunday sutra

my friends now
are adults.
kids
are
kids.

I came home
and my heart got heavier.
it had time to think.

I went away and
thought out-loud,
burnt my flexing tongue
on coffee,

(adult sunday sutra.)

I got my mind scrambled
in the dark.
every woman
in street light
is beautiful.

sometimes
I go
blind.