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A Pair of Whales

A pair of whales
swimming slowly,
embracing, talking
about something:

the smell of summersweet on the harbor walk;
or why he didn’t call her
in the movie we watched last night;
or where we’ll move to next,
and how it will be perfect.
Or about spinning too quickly
through the vortex of the day.

We don’t know
how long we’ve been swimming,

because the earth is round
and the oceans all
flow into one,

but our flesh is etched
from scraping
against
time’s jagged
edges.

Our words surge ahead
in a song,
a low wail of ooo, ooo,
and an intricate series of click click click,
about love, krill, and grammar.

We follow our song,
having nothing else
to lead us through
the blue-black water.

Dash Literary Journal Issue 9, Spring 2016

Irises

In sunlight,
cinnamon circles.

Chocolate zodiacs
in shade.

The black holes
in their middles

are for me
a downfall
sweet.

As I teeter
on the event horizon,

the fact impresses
itself upon me

that what is drawn
into the deepest heart
will not retreat.

Your gravity,
as I pitch,

pulls me,
moves me singularly,
with warm arms,

to the point
where I am crushed
to the infinite.

Whistling Shade, Spring-Summer 2017

A Strange Place

I’m walking through a grove of sycamores.
Dappled sunlight plays on the grasses.

It’s a strange place
where I found myself
years ago, not
from desire,
but from necessity.

Soft, dry air escorts me,
a crowd of beings I cannot see,
silent ones,
kidnappers.
I feel their firm arms around my body.

They peeled the bark off the sycamores
and now they’re peeling off
who I thought
I was.

I hear birds twittering,
breeze rustling the leaves,
smell the yellow brittle grasses.
Ahead lies the lake.
Maybe someday I’ll reach it.

The Binnacle Spring 2016

Thanksgiving Morning

A cluster of dead leaves
left hanging on the maple tree
quivers like a vibrating bell.

White gasps of steam rise
from the house across the street,
where grown children
have come home
and one who never left
works on his car.

The dark funnel descends
from the sky and lifts
everything in its path—
the car, the couch,
the TV, the trowel, the sink,
the cows, and the people,
then batters and blends them,
says the article on tornadoes
in National Geographic
I read at breakfast.

The survivors stagger out,
grateful to be alive.

Inertia Magazine April 2015