As You Go

I watch if you’ll see me with your smile.
I see you as you get ready.
I see already as the brush travels
through your hair.
I see as you dust on your makeup.
I see as you reach for the sheets
that have dried on the line.
I listen as you laugh with the kids.
I listen as the dogs bark at your car.
I watch as the birds burst from the light
that filled in the trees.


In the morning, the night
still in me, I catch her, a face,
a revelatory pose, and eyelids seamed
with two black caterpillars set upon cheekbones
regarding the teeth
working to pull apart
meat from the left-over t-bone in her hand,
and I stare, amazed. I know nothing
about this woman. How she will devour me.
What she will become.


I am looking for something new.

I stare at my books. I am looking out the window.

I would like to say, Junebugs are speaking

to the stars, though that barely means

what I want it to.

Lately, I’ve been so calm, you say.

And I realize you are looking out a window

at me, looking for something old,

something the stars sang with.