scrambled egg

when it starts to get warm i miss pittsburgh 

berlin

You my sweet young boy

mummied in scarves and hats

staring through a cloud.

the blow of snow into eyelashes and nostrils

know that it is winter's slap

winter's harsh bite

winter's lonely foe

as unique snowflakes form

on your upturned horny brow.

but my old sweet boy

the one I knew when I knew

nothing much at all

only feels a warm palm

tree

and a soft

wind

and stares through a rainbow

at an ocean I know not the map of.

so while I also feel the bite

of winter's tooth

you may as well live,

my old sweet boy

in another year entirely

and you may mutter,

“the seasons colliding make distance

much more distrusting for a hudson river

woman

like you”

as I live in the fall leaves we once

jumped into

finding the single needle

A postcard sent to Sandy

And Dora rolled

as we boarded the plane

and he told me I wouldn't see it all

miles away

from the warnings

of 3 storms colliding

into one woman with a name

you find in small towns

and sad cities

and Dora rolled

as we read foreign tongues

over candlelight and

medicinal wine

our old homes sitting quiet;

just the still sheets

and the silent cacti

trying to die

(not even a slow drip of a faucet

in this poem)

while Dora rolled

and so did we

into spaces and arms

where storms collided

years ago

and even our own blood

was shed

we ate green hearts and soupy lyrics

and fell in love with ugly mornings

while everything else they owned floated away

and Dora rolled