Three Poems

Perigee Moon

It was mid-November, that
autumn when I could only walk
east, following the moon to its source.
I wanted to find it at the water's edge
but it always lifted too high
above my gaze.
                       I found myself
on my back over and over again,
seeking truth from a rock.
I thought there could be something
new. I thought "What beauty you emit,
old friend." and then that
emit was an odd word to use.
None of the moon's light is its own.

 

October

this day is thick
smear and trudge,
sky spit and
ebb, and you
are somewhere.
perhaps walking
like me: damp,
stiff. bone cold
thoughts always
loop. the click of
hastening steps—
these feet are two
orbits, always opposite.
one always lifting off,
the other pushing
forward. alone.
are you alone?
I cannot feel
your mind
on me through
this city cold.
these city trees reach
their arms, drip fat beads
onto what is already numb,
longing for your skin—red
and waiting.
these hands are forgetting
the warmth of being
wrapped, nestled
and dry.
the sky
is grey, wet
cotton, and you
are somewhere.

 

Leaving

It tastes like wind.
Small hands
look at the earth: an ocean,
                         a sky.
Their cupped bodies gather up
the moments: tiny beautiful droplets.
They need to be set in rows and counted,
but liquid pools into one mass,
and there are no edges—
only seep,
leaving damp palms and want.

But
there is something
           unparcelled, lonely,
                      carrying itself.
Water wells at the crease
of everything closing.