secret secret

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Love.

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pop anthem

would i be

your

wildflower

the one you pass on

the way to work

side of the

highway

burst of

red

grown

in the ash

of a careless

smoker

in the beak

of a black bird

in your

morning

sky

would i

be your

wildflower

if you wish me

a rose

send yourself hollyhocks

there is a steadiness in

unraveling

that shows up

just in time

a sort of thick

metallic

swallow

a dragging

sound

behind you

on days

when

your totem

the one you

won’t live up to

has been

declared

extinct

you don’t know if

you trust the word

love

anymore

the bees don’t

come around so much

as they do terrorize

your dreams

your best squirrel

left and didn’t

say goodbye

you find

yourself

holding hands

with a stranger

just

to

feel

warm

street theater

somewhere between

the mundane chore

of birth

and

the return

of lady

saturn

a great performer

was culled

from plants

of a very ordinary

variety

spit

two lucky

marbles

veins filled

with the unluckiest

guardian angel

hope

so began the

midnight shows

everybody laughing

crying only

in the most

tasteful fashion

all the color

you could

get drunk

on

every song

every act

every bow

knife

walking

fly up you said

doing stupid things

for love is fun

like the time you

mailed something

overnight

for all of the money

you owned

pushed it across the

counter as if

on fire

your own hot cheeks

agreeing to

the devil’s

price

because

this book is a love letter

the monolith

face

of a us postal

worker

barely registers

a heart

beat

virgo

when you said

i will try to remember

to be less logical

with you

honey bee

in a tree again

your right hand grimaced

around your left arm

chess was playing

everything there was

perfectly

quiet

should i have said

i will learn ancient

mathematics

strategy and defense

in order

to keep order

of your

raging

war

eyes to heaven

i whistled for you

so you sent

the bees

instead

pretty little

hand written

business letter

under their regretful

wings

stories made of kindling

i am guessing

as i light a match

resolve to give up

music for a week

pray more instead

oh and

by the by

they are

my

bees

now

if it’s leather it will keep

if we leave the windows open

between constellations

i will make tin-can phones

you say hello

sometimes

i promise to

pick

up

so long as you are

in your

night sky

where ice

would surely

turn my lava

to

rock

as long as

there are fourteen

moons between us

and morning

you won’t find

the black holes

i cut

from my

ears

in august, maybe

those are my birds

as you put one

hand

on your heart

one hand against the sky

you scooped them up

there were many

put them in your pocket

awhile

later

i asked about your birds

had you fed them in

your pocket

given them time to

fly about

oh those birds were fish

special fish?

ordinary in

every

way

bull thistle (again)

while hanging out with

souls

today

in the soft and sunny

lazy bird moments

of the morning

mossy bricks i

double dog dared myself

to scale in

cowgirl boots

i imaged you in the

distant

pale-face

cowboy

afraid of guns

but thinks they

will shoot just

fine

could be

your tattoo

someday

reads

our

sweetheart

gone

but not

forgotten

so the hippies says

you asked me how i wanted it

i surprised myself with

shotgun

you laughed

then we practiced breathing

until our lips

just barely touched

i wanted to ask

did you hear that thunder

but before i turned around

your storm

was barely a ripple

on my

lake

body

and

this is how we

tidy our

gardens

i guess