Something there is to you
                                           in now
                             on a swing.

Some sort of
              unspeakable thing.

As if your feet only touch
                                           the Earth
to push you back
                             to space,
                                           they bring

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
                             the swing?
                                           The Earth?
              The tree?

Perhaps I am none
                             and you, my love,
              have always been
                                           all three.

Perhaps I am here to see
              what no one else might
                                           ever see.

              An image of swinging you
like a portrait still drying, freshly anew,
              floating through,
                             yes, floating through,

and I am great
              to simply await,
                             your return
              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
                             with us
                                           to Earth.

Day #25 of #nationalpoetrymonth | Cover image: Ricardo Silva

San Diego Love Song

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

to you,
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