Sticking out like a carriage in a crowd
clawing at the underbrush sweating sour peach
An interbreed of Irish moss and dirt I've eaten-
dirt i've known and seen and dreamed.
And after cold-water baths,
after i greave gravel's breath
I could wander down the path you left
of helicopter seeds and salt.

It's either Mexico or New Jersey

Half drowned waiting lists lit up freshmen wide eyes fresh men, fresh body sweat swallowing streams under his half-hearted stained writing. I am interested in their conveluted conversation wrapping itslef over and over under and under never coming to and under fleshy tones with hues of blue and gas blackend by the back-end wealth of their economy I am sick. I am covered in satin and silk washing my arms in the over-head light while children wade in the water i spill.

In my study of human limitations

Wallowing shirtless birds
circling over-head my outdoor shower.
Heavy heels
Sit still
two hours.

November

Dawn birds fly over glass table-tops Into Tree shadows in my Woods.
Three shadows snake through swallows nests sour still from blue empty waves-and
I almost forgot Margot laying there,
swaying there with the leaves.

May 20th, 2008

Staring straight, slightly to my left
I am caught not once but three times by Her
(The Mother)
She grabs at the rain-soaked coat of a loved toddler girl with twists and twirls the train cannot hold their ever elevating song.
I watch kisses and eyes closed- eyes open- offering some last-minute wisdom.
Baby girl tangles pink plastic snaps in her hair and I am watching in time-lapse blinks because i don't want to stare
But i do.
My burden to bare is to bare your burdens.
I am anticipating his next move because i see the right foot tapping Down they come with my heart in their hands, squeezing it so very tight my eyes start to vomit salt water onto the insides of my glasses and my stomache aches. And my feet hurt.
And my head is rattling so hard i am certain it will burst-and then-
eye contact again.
Jesus, why can't i get this one straight-The Mother must be inside my brain helping push whatever thought.
Next thing- I lose it. I am too busy thinking of not thinking i missed my poem.
Selfish bitch i am to use these people for prose.

Missing Robin, and this is why