Monthly Archives: September 2015

over and over

I fall in love
over and over again.

Years in between
and then a bus
a smell
some sunlight in the late afternoon

Is it them I miss
or the girl who loved them?

the curly black-haired drinker
the Australian
the married one
the motorcyclist

My heart breaks apart
over and over again

Is it love or nostalgia
for my own stories?

I don’t want to go back
but I am here
and they are empty spaces.

How is it a circle?
Is it a line?
Where are they?

I don’t mean Wisconsin or
Washington DC or

I mean

How can my heart hold them all
in there?
It must be huge,
with files stored in some

by bee pollen
or rainbow,
by the sound of a fiddle at dusk.


Where am I?

I wanted to grow up into the world
where I lived.
Why would I think otherwise?
When my legs were longer
they would look awesome in
legwarmers and a leotard
just like that woman from Flashdance.
When I was old enough to wear
nail polish,
I would paint them red
and push the buttons on the telephone
with style and efficiency
while cocking my head slightly to the left
holding the receiver to my ear with no hands.
How could I have known
that the world would be so different?
That when I got grown,
the world I knew would be gone
and replaced by a completely foreign one?
This must happen
in every generation?
As the world reinvents itself
moment after moment.
As my atoms rearrange.
As life twists up
over and over
like little tornados
or a bubbling soup
falling back down
in entirely new patterns.


every so slightly
different heights make this awkward
arms tight in
closer to you
than I would stand
if it were not
under this
one umbrella
we decided to share
because it’s like the three-legged race
and we are kids
trying to make it down the
without falling
closer to you than
I will ever be


Wheelchairs pointed left right askew
like the balls on a pool table
after that loud
sends them
rolling into corners
losing speed anywhere on that huge expanse
of green
Scattered across the dining room
one faced a wall
brown hair
men and women
They allow smoking in these joints?
She lay crumpled in bed like an apple doll
crying for us to leave
crying for us to come back
Pictures of a younger woman with children at her sides
lining the windowsill