My Neighbor the Forgetful Wind
Monday the pickled beet Monday the sun is red Monday I’d rather call you darling if that’s OK Darling pickled beet red sun
You’re still my favorite ghost but that doesn’t make me a brick and mortar wall you pass through or a neglected piano that plays itself on New Year’s Eve after everyone zigzags the landscape home
Porcupines are plucked by the shoulder of the road as the ground drinks the dew from fallen apples
I broadcast hot peppermint tears to my impossible friends
Simmering water brought to a boil in my stomach
Vicious dreams forcing open the windows
The afternoon light in the fruit trees
In a beehive in a hospital bed in a minute in a handful of basil in a black plastic trash bag of broken dishes in the overused dark forgiveness is lingering
Birds with iridescent breasts and bellies lured me across the Appalachian Mountains years before I wrote this so what I’m saying is let go already
Leaves on Inauguration Day
These are the bending
and this is the wine
I poured from a bottle.
It’s finished. This is barren
and there goes our daughter
across the gelid mouth of the lake.
That is our home
between the two ridges.
This is one stiff wind.
And here comes the sea.