Canary Island Date Palm
Couldn’t say the dream I had last night.
But I might start
by saying your dates
were motionless in a breeze,
almost orange like bittersweet,
almost yellow
like bittersweet.
Love and Ink
you’ll cross the continent, confess
to angels of death—
you’ll yawn, limp, squint, arrive in a U-Haul
sweat, rattle a typewriter, scratch paper,
a globe breaking at the equator—
and she’ll tickle your feet
and you’ll lick beneath her ear—
your legs jello, your penis a flower—
but your antiquated words will clatter away
and your romance
droop like two palms—
a jay will screech, a story itch—
Persephone
I saw quick rumps
leap from the cedar bower.
Maybe it was you
startled by a passing car—
sister of the fields,
globe eyes and cloven feet,
little bearded repetitions of wheat
swallow your retreat.
