See, babe, the waters not so high.
It is autumn, we let things go.
We are Quebec, we are sauntering forward.
Like water above the knees like dresses
above the knees. 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.