live poetry

past 

five

the only time i'd ever call 

you 

time plays games on us and it 

make us weary now, we used to think that these tricks were harmless

and meant for us.

i don’t get to give up and count the sun’s rays and rest on

anyone’s shoulder, 

loving nobody is

breaking my heart

i’d wait another day or year or so but nothing new would

it’s another, caught up in words tangled in 

lies, but you are a Savior and you take

-m2 checked out 9-11 novels from lib under m3′s name, assuming the following: automatic renewals as proved from lib’s recent reformation of system renewals, notice given from cardholder/message receiver (m) regarding status of items.

-lib fines 7.25 x 2 from m3′s account after 0 renewals -- an unusual occurrence

-m received 3 notifications, once per week, pertaining to said lib overdue notice, for 3 consecutive weeks

-m holds as m2′s liability for negligence, given the facts: an unusual circumstance of no renewal, repeated messages to m’s own account, and no notice given to m2 from m over 3 consecutive weeks during which fines accumulate

one i join you up by the swings & you laugh generously -- “i’ve never seen your hair done up like that”  and you’re right.

two ten we are on opposite sides of the largest log we could find in this all but empty neighborhood park behind the cul-de-sac where you live.  “it’s like a trust fall,” you exclaim, but i’m so busy noticing the way the slant of sun touches your  skin that i fall into a bed of leaves. i open my eyes and you’re already beside me. four forty i lead with my questions -- what do you think about this summer? how much conscience is built by culture? but you’ve grabbed my hand already and we’re running.  four fifty  i sprawl back on rocky shore, eager to catch my breath. when i turn around i yell at you, dripping wet, “i have no change of clothes you idiot!” but your guilty smile is what i mostly remember, and then the stupid, wry way you said, “back to your questions.”

six thirty there’s a tiny book of poems in your backpack & i point it out. it’s bookmarked to your favorite -- clocks & lovers. i convince you to read it out loud and when you’ve finished the sun had touched everything with gold.  eight “imagine for a moment that someone had laughed in these. someone loved in these. someone may have died in these, mel.” i never thought that way when i came here alone. “you’re the corniest person i’ve ever met,” i retort.