#gregory stapp

Love will be activated when birch tree (A)grows to a height where, when leaf (B)releases in fall and wafts down to porch (C),crow (D) is inspired to caw and to take the leaf in beak (E) back to nest (F) where the leaf ages and withers into heart's shape (G)until person (H) discovers the leaf and retrieves it,taking it to lover (I) who carries the leaf to lamp (J)and they study the leaf's details together (K)until they press it between the pages of dictionary (L)and return the dictionary to shelf (M) in bedroom (N)where, inspired by shadows (O) cast by the birch tree on blinds (P), they will pull quilt (Q) from bed (R)and lift sheet (S) until there is enough air (T) beneath that they can lie down and embrace (U) until the sheet drifts down over them (V) and they become secluded in their own world of diffused light (W),while outside (X) two bees (Y)hover over peach tree flowers (Z).

She reaches for my hand; I forget what I was going to say.   A metaphor begs forgiveness; an unopened letter on the desk.   The smell of cannabis hangs heavy in the hallway; my son’s bedroom light is on.   Today they plow down the trees; engines roar like hunger.   See how muslin is thin as it feels; I spend the day watching light behind this curtain.   A breath of stormy air tastes electric; I…

We walked the edge of a pond in the damp after a show, two pale geese floating in the abyss. A surprise Honk! and we froze, afraid, until we burst into laughter and a clumsy embrace. Twenty years came between us after that night. The people we were then are no longer with us. My darling, where did we go, and who did we leave behind? Two flipped coins, a shock of sound, and bare feet in cold green…

The morning has gone; what did I make of it? The sun rose and its light filtered through the neighborhood of trunks and leaves. The music of everything, birdsong and engine hum, filled the air. I tasted tepid water and licked a drop from my lip. My thigh skin felt smooth beneath my resting fingers. My father’s headstone, the smallest of markers, sleeps unseen in the dirt and grass like a fallen…

            – the act of poisoning oneself in small doses to build immunity Every bird is a drop of poison here, every river a vein. Dip, droop, whip; the birds drip through the air and curse the atmosphere with song. The river carries their flitting shadows to its fingertips until even the cattails are numb, the crescent infertile. How many birds must chirp their toxicity out onto the full lips…

is a lie worth telling, like so many lies, at least once or twice. The broad sidewalk in Tucumcari that runs along the old Route 66 mural on 2nd Street with its Get Your Kicks sign and the sightseeing guitarist painted as if he’s there on the sidewalk too comes to mind, or the smell of food from La Cita’s kitchen, fried bread or crisp salsa or fire. Santa, too, is a worthwhile lie, like stockings…