eyes open,
door swings on latches
bent from wind too old
for the north. cuts at
irises, you close,
we close eyes
frantic for the dark.
in Jefferson
late for school
I ran on side streets as
geese flew in V’s and made
arrows out of flight.
at home were eyes,
and family that said
I needed to grow up
which meant I couldn’t
turn my head sideways
and grin at squirrels.
once put my finger
in the dust of an old Chevy
with no wheel wells
and windows like
chalkboards, I wrote
“leaving on a
jet plane” then left
and never looked back.
I had wine
for breakfast
and never once wore
matching socks. then
later, to remind myself
I rolled pant legs up
and jumped and splashed
a man in a business suit
for looking too serious.
old tricks die hard
and now, closed mouth.
rain slants down at
windows with rhythmic
precision. I tell myself
this is it. winter’s here.
jimmy cricket ain’t
ready.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So much life tucked into these short phrases. This is a garden, rich in its very living, seemingly wild (as the Brits are so fond) yet so purposefully expressive. Each outcropping offering new, delightfully intriguing vistas. An instant classic.