Tag: NaPoWriMo24

sometimes/ it re-enters as tender/                               dream stretched/ -out road to/Fort Tilden

never-ending/  burning thighs Sameer’s/         laughing chide I/ thought         we were going/

to lose you   sun-smeared/bikes in front me/  trailing distance/   clouds/pulled straight as horizon/

forcing another revolution/ of chain & tires     eventually/ sanded with            sweat/ running

down/face fat dark berries/     shoved in mouth only/ time saw/        this swathe of water/

above swarm/. of white-gray gulls mass/          of people in deep/ distance 10/            maybe 14 

bikes/  littered along beach/   footprints thru sand   many names   already/ forgotten              or I 

never/bothered   to hear careless/ adventure   to kill/             an otherwise empty/Saturday—a 

blank slate/ blue   iron &/salt   soft/. skin         some quiet/ gossip       about someone’s/ absence an

outstretched/ arm   in hunt/    of an airborne/                        frisbee Blonde Redhead   coming out/ 

of phone/speaker   empties tangled/with seaweed   can’t/ remember              if I/ swam Sunday/

in bed             with books until/ mid-afternoon          light/ falling in stripes/             upon sore 

calves/ out  window then/      a single tree &/   parking   lot full/      of risers/ Chinatown gloried/

in its afternoon hustle/ it re-enters a life away/  from a life yet /         there is no thru-line that/

life this life circles/    sadself revolving with/   smilingself a floating/  center to see/             light

falling/ in strips some gossip/  a memory/     of a bike ride   to a beach while/        now out/   my 

window/  aged red-bricked apartment/ buildings thin trees/  with hesitant buds cars/ sloshing        

along street/  afternoon footprints in drizzle/  below oversized/ shrubs of brilliant/ green/  

my desk cluttered/ with books by Morgan/ James & Joe my own/     book asunder somewhere/

in the mess/ a word  the sentence/ an em dash/ a phrase a/ line collaboration of/ days & nights/

real & imagined/    friends held closely/    in the distance—

Easter Sunday at the little dog run,
& the dachsunds are dressed in their Sunday best.

I’ll admit, I’ve been forgetting what hope tastes like,
after six months of Saturdays spent in the streets,

even a Thursday locked in a jail cell,
my cries falling on ears tuned in only to empire.

Holy Week came early this year;
after six years on the East Coast

I still haven’t learned my lesson,
& I shiver when the sun ducks behind a cloud.

But then the wind turns
& all smells of lilac.

Not lilac-scented soap or deodorant,
but the sudden perfume of aliveness.

This is only the beginning.