These days, any little thing
distracts me: a moth clicking
its body on the tin roof
in Morse code, a drop
of cranberry juice, the translucent
tote bag you placed over
the white halogen light burning
on my balcony. I forget what
pulled me outside to begin with—
the lack of walls, perhaps
or the faded voice of dogs.
Whatever it was, I’m worried
about the atmosphere again.
Once I wrote an encyclopedia
on the wind songs of the dead.
Tomorrow I’ll suck the juice
from an orange, and a girl will place
a peanut shell into my palm, proclaiming
everything vanishes into clouds
to return via the faucet in the bathroom
sink. Leaving Earth will be difficult
I think, but someone’s mother
will make a lovely photo album
about it. My fortune cookie
never tells me I’m going to die
though it wouldn’t be wrong.
In the desert, a motorcycle races
beneath a sky of starfish and bears.
The crickets remember September.
In the dew-dropped grass,
a girl climbs into the basket
of a hot-air balloon like she is diving
into a glass of lemonade.
These days, little makes sense
except the apples in my kitchen
and the saddest trees are Southerners.
Even if we don’t survive the end
of the world, I hope the universe
reminds you of the night we drove
to the prison, my hands raised
through the moon roof, wind lacing
around my fingers. The songs
I don’t know are my favorite.
My favorite language is the one
you speak in my ear
though I don’t understand.


Photo By Mark Robinson