Ocotillo
The remote wilderness
of the west kicks us into
dawn where the wide
laugh-lined desert
deserts us in the name of
big band melodies which
bring to mind a sunrise
watched from the rooftop with
your arm across my back.

My feet are always bare in
the humid months, though this
was before I knew you enough
to slay lamplight and render paper
useless to my touch, but the
world is so weightless
sometimes.

So dream-like, collapsing into
summersaults and cotillions,
hands held, walk away
montages of mirages, and
marriages burn at the stake
like witches with dark hair.

New England is a jester,
a continual conundrum
I have never seen.

I keep myself north;
east if I have to, stray
from sight, hide inside
glass, smile in the factories,
wait for June,
wait for March

wait.

I am made of moments
turned into words,
turned into poems
turned into what you
think of me.

I'm made of nothing
else.