a poet tree

when i break

i dig

six deep
six wide

i throw myself in

wrap myself
in the skin
of dirt
i've unearthed


i wait


and breathe


this poet tree is what grows
of me


welcome
to me

broken
and
born





wb

for a yellow dress in san francisco

indian summer looms
in the distance
like that fog
that hangs
huddled around the feet
of the golden gate
until the fall finally exhales
her held hot breath
and the gray's holiday
on the coast
evaporates

the real summer
of this city
is always late
because, in san francisco
even the seasons
embrace rebellion

so reassure that yellow dress
growing restless
at the back of the closet
that she must only hang in there
a little longer
because her golden bloom
is coming




wb

she is an island

the sound
of a saturday rain
on six moody strings

the song
is for the one
who can't hear
but isn't far

the sound
is the same
as the reach
in my sleep

the same reach
as before
she was there

but now
my swimming hands
find the island
they were looking for

except for nights
like tonight
when she is still
a day's swim away





wb

depression inversion

con
vexing
the con
cave
that dwelling
that invites me
too well
to sit
in the dark

i am going
to con
your con
to vex
your cave
to take
your upside
downtown
taking
my side
making
your valley
a mountain
to conquer
again




wb

always looking up

hot sunday
on a monday

but baby blue
they're coming for you

the thunderheads
are on their way
to whisk you off

that is how it is here
this time of year
1 part sun
1 part storm

you are not one
to be ignored





wb

homesick

since my arrival
i have found myself
unwilling to let go
of my San Francisco
who built a womb
around the fetal position
she found my body giving in to

so i've kept a secret quiver
loaded
with greater than
and less than
symbols
my chalk outlines
of dead arrowheads

i find myself pausing
at street corners
and cafe counters,
bridge crossings
and grocery store registers,
to place these side lying v's
like flowers of mourning
with their wide side facing west

and i know it's time
to take a trowel to each one
fill it in
with wet cement
and drag my finger through it
to engrave my lovers initials
next to mine

i know this isn’t when
i should be choosing to crouch
beneath the shelter of these acute angles
keeping myself from the other side
where these angles are sprouting
feathered tails
becoming fresh arrows
telling me where to be
and showing me where the next place
will have to live up to

so New Orleans,
you need to know
it isn’t you,
it’s me






wb

so i run

in a sky and a place
who's first name basis
is far from autonomic
i brave the wave of necessity
that pushes me out the door
i need to sweat
i need to breathe
like only this can allow
so i run

i do not yet understand the words
of these giant grey dinosaurs
who rumble and crackle
their way across this afternoon

i do not yet understand
whether they are telling me
the sky will erupt with cats and dogs
as if something had disemboweled a lake
in the heavens, or
that it will rip in half
over and over
along seams of white heat
in fleeting flashes of anger

or both.
or neither…

and i see this giant grey herd
of brontosaur lining up
in the distance
and though i don't know
if their presence is ominous or majestic
i need this cleansing
so i run

with an eye on the sky
reaching for comprehension
of the language
falling on my foreigner ears

as i run
my anxiety begets gratitude
i am grateful
for the presence of mind
pulled out of me
for 34 minutes
until i click the stop on my watch
and unlock my front door,
breath heavy, sweat permeating, body unscathed

i may not yet understand
the speech of these ancient beasts
but i believe i may have just learned how to say
to this sky and this place
"hello, my name is..."






wb

a larger triangle

two days and 2200 miles later.
already out of range.
though, the telephone works better here,
the communication is lost.

i feel like my words are flapping uselessly in the breeze
clothes pinned to the wireless technology hung between us
strung out bits, mouthing out the hugs i want to reach you
but won't reach you like they used to
and so i feel less than powerless
and lost along the lines drawn
between states of country
and of mind
i am here and not there
and this damn phone
has chaperoned my emotions
into emoticons
and i know that you know
that i love you
but i want you to be able to taste it
the way that it was
inside the triangle
of easy chair, couch
and easy chair
with nothing filling the air
but our poems
and now those corners are so much farther apart,
but i need you each to hear that it is like that
that i love you
and the damn phone can't say it
so thank god for the poem



wb