See, babe, the waters not so high.
And it is autumn, and we then
let things go. We are Quebec,
we are sauntering forward. We know.
Like water above the knees like dresses
above the knees we know. Like rivers, like
oil, like frying pans we understand.
I hope. Bike around the city--
see the boys on Second and Florida
practicing kung fu or tai chi
at ten at night in the alley
and how they move--so slowly
with staff and position after
carefully wrought position. Like water.
Like water, like breath taking
in sweet jams or the beasts inside frying onions.

Lovely that autumn peeks on the vines
against the walls separating wood from concrete.
Tree and highway and everywhere we go is bumper to bumper.
This is a median: yellow
dumpsters filled with sand and water,
concentric circles like concentric
squares like leaves and cars
we are meeting in the middle.
Autumn, you exist only in hills.
We knoww you, highway, only exist
in hills. Travelers, pick your middle,
pick where you ride. Lastly,
speed, go slow, and as our
ribboned car doors pass by this season
let us know by letting us know.

Joyce

Joyce loves things that are green.
Sweatshirts wrap her head to feet. I want Joyce.
Joyce says that Spring is oranges
and she meanns day lilies
though she loves things green and makes her
choices based on that. That
and that Joyce holds vegetables
in high regard, though, Joyce, you
cut them so carelessly and slow-cook
the sting out of lemongrass and my cheek.
Joyce: I want her and when sweat
wraps her head, sweatshirts
fall across the floor like garden parts,
and vegetable-getting implements
and in the park she lies and oh
Joyce, my Joyce can you tell us
what else is orange and never,
honestly, green.

Love Song (this one rhymes...weird!)

If I were a windmill, I would grind up against you.
And, being thorough,
Continue to turn.
Please, though it may burn,
And the bottom of my floor
Is dusted; the door
Terribly hinged and the latch
Broken with a catch
When you open it a crack,
There is song in touch,
The stone, my back,
Your traces. Much

I've thought of you, and things that linger:
Your finger
Against mine.
Windmill, salt and grain.
Lengths of song, where it rests.
Winter, warmth, our chests,
And, what,
As if there were some answer
Cleaner than the mouth of a cut
Around a cord of wood, or
With more purpose?
Ultimately, it is the grain
The windmill is dependent upon:
Therein lies the song.

Lady, the potatoes are done, mixed
with softened garlic, onions,
noise from the outside and the smoke
that wafted out the window
but caught a bit on the spider web in the corner
I am afraid to kill
or move, as the creature still lives
and so I ask myself every day,
Will eggs be lain suddenly
or will we live pleasantly,
the crowds outside, reggeton
and barflies not bothering either of us
as if noise were not a simple fact
rather a mere stroke in the curve of a letter;
though, thinking about it now,
so integral to the making of things
so then again, do I kill the spider.

I find it tough to cross the street

I find it tough to cross the street--
14th, already, smelling of babies' cries
loving children and mothers in
two, almost three languages commanding--
sun at its peak, almost, of
night, haziness like the wave of a lover
across the floor, both old, new

at once a caress or a slap on the back
a scratch on the forehead
as the bus cries and weans
on the street's milk. Darker than
me, laughing hard, and me
smiling as a mug of coffee
dove-tailing and red.

Most days are long fingers
pointing either at me or out.
So tell me, fair: better, then, to
tattoo my eyes of my lids
or sit against the street, red
but looking.

[Things I am jealous of]

Things I am jealous of:
the way in which some poems
may walk from living room
to bedroom, arm in arm
with a lover; and love,
in general, for being so steadfast
and terribly obscure
except in eyes, feet and longing,
and thus more accessible
as we touch, from living room
to bedroom, simple as broomsticks
or rather, painted bright red or green.
Eventually, the sun will draw
against my love's belly
and her body will remind me of a semicolon
one brief end and always
a continuation.