Something there is to you
on a swing.
Some sort of
As if your feet only touch
to push you back
you to a somewhere
where only you go
and turn your head
and tip the tip
of your pointed simple toe.
Could I maybe be
Perhaps I am none
and you, my love,
have always been
Perhaps I am here to see
what no one else might
An image of swinging you
like a portrait still drying, freshly anew,
yes, floating through,
and I am great
to simply await,
against my chest,
where lovers do what they do best,
in taking space
and moons and stars,
like a thousand deaths
and a thousand births,
to come back down
Day #25 of #nationalpoetrymonth | Cover image: Ricardo Silva
About an hour later the power went off.
An hour after that the floor caved in.
An hour after that the building caught on fire.
An hour after that the sinkhole sucked it all in.
An hour after that the flood came,
filling everything like the opposite of a baptism.
An hour after that the sharks came.
An hour after the sharks came,
the tsunami came, pulling them in.
And then, the tsunami crashed
and even the mountains themselves were flattened,
gnawed away at by the crash of a thousand sharks.
An hour after that the water went still,
slowly dripping off the edge
of this turtle island we live upon.
When the ground dried up
and the sun returned
like a long overdue Blockbuster videotape
I could see straight across the newly formed plains
my sweet San Diego,
and I walked hours and hours
just to light a candle beside you.
Day #22 of #nationalpoetrymonth | Cover image: Thomas Vimare