there are no coincidences
I know things happen
(for a reason)
bad
good
the word spins
like an old drunk on a barstool
meaningful connections are just walking around out in the sun
and you are a shiny universally understood symbol
The Ohio River calls me home as summer lifts her dress to us all.
There are old men on the side of the highway with berries and red, fat tomatoes.
Arms hang out of car windows.
Motorcycles speed past.
There is so much green.
I turn towards you and ask you to walk with me.
I show you my Appalachian heart.
you know i love the past cuz i hate suspense
And I'd probably write it on a cocktail napkin
I'll write you a tiny manifesto
about things
intentions
light motives
views
and I'll read it to you
standing across the table
out loud with a shaky voice
just so you know I'm serious
the air between us like a fugitive
palpable
perhaps in some ripple of time
at the edge of the world
we sit together
and eat bright apples
the sun licks your face
your body relaxed
one of your hands resting on my bare knee
and we never knew anything else
Blue, blue windows behind the stars
and it does
I revisit your face in my mind
across your eyes
down your nose
over your lips
the way you would look if you started talking like a wild one
all excited and your mouth moving
telling me the most wonderful word
the word is yes
and it pushes up against me
it makes me move
Sweet Jane.
The shirt touches his neck
and smooths over his back.
It slides down his sides.
It even goes down below his belt—
down into his pants.
Lucky shirt.
by Jane Kenyon
fragile fire
you hold me like a teacup in your big hands
china bought at a thrift store on a whim
shining light caught your eye when you were near the door
and for days you've been putting me to your mouth
then leaving me on the counter
for the sun to settle in me
like fire
not necessarily exactly defined
I lied and told you I played the mandolin because I wanted it to rain all over us so we'd run into the black woods and find a lean-to. The heart is a shelter. I can sew a tarp. Read a trail. We'll make a compass of your fingers. The night will come like a storm, you'll wash me away.
wonder(boy)
it doesn't matter
because you would show me your heart
and I'd tell you everything was going to be fine
and you'd believe me
and the sun would come up anyway
it always does
it just matters that you say yes to the things that scare you
and that I alarm you
and envelop you
with wonder
The arranger of disorder
Counting with my fingers
I know when you read my words your head turns softly to the side and you think about all the ways the world could spin. There are many ways to get to the end of the world.
I'll tell you all the ways. Soft math. Tiny abstracts of change. Space. Structure. Quantity.
Just take my hands. Hold them. Count my fingers slowly. I won't be able to stop talking.
channeled
and I would listen to Van Morrison at the same time
high lonesome
I'd like to be quiet with you
not say three words
sprawled out quilts
on the floor
my hand on your neck
your fingers in my hair
we'd pretend to be asleep
at some point
but there would be no sleep
it would be like driving a car
fast through a hypnotic desert
it would be like bluegrass
loudly
like the way you want to scream sometimes
but don't
Since I was a little kid. I just knew.
You may not remember the day I leaned over and kissed you softly
on the side of your face,
but I do.
I told you that love was everywhere in the world.
I whispered that it was essentially littering the landscape and you just had to
open up your mouth, turn your body toward it. Raise your hands.
I'm sure it sounded like a thing people say while drinking ales.
I'm sure I sounded bold.
People just know things,
like how to handle snakes,
change tires,
make rafts,
sew quilts,
set fire to love.
I just know about love.
I see it all around you like a flame
I'm certain of it
we all throw ourselves at the target
the brilliant shining spot we wish we could understand
we are all the same
you
and you make me
scream
like a neon sign
an arrow
pointing
home
just hangs there
My mouth is a star. It shines on you like a projector, extensive catalogues of my affection hang in the air between us.
