Young and In Love
I don't know how to do anything
well. That includes dying. But
I can tell you there's a door in laughter.
It shimmers like the first five seconds
after you take your shirt off
in front of someone for the first time.
I keep the keys on a keyring
in my teeth. If you want them,
please, come and get them.
Insomnia
Some nights she’s an apparition
darkening the hallway, floorboards
beneath her feet grieving.
Usually, she pipettes into my ear
what’s keeping her awake:
shin bones aching,
white horses neighing
ride away with me, stuffed
bears snared in quicksand sheets.
She climbs into the crucible
between my wife and me, folds
her body into our breathing.
All night her legs twist
like worn keys, sleep’s tumblers
just out of reach.
Pre-dawn, when I lurch out of bed,
she rolls into the warmth I’ve shed
and watches me open
dark’s door.
This final lesson
I give to her early:
when I leave
there will be light
where I used to be.
The Widower
In the middle of my yard my neighbor gapes
at the moon, which roars
loud as a lighthouse beam
bleaching the peninsula.
I want to show off, I tell him it’s a rare lunar eclipse,
a "Beaver Moon,"
and if you ever want to lose your mind
repeat "Beaver Moon" a dozen times
to an 80-year-old
("What?")
taking out the trash. My neighbor turns,
light like sawdust
onto a workshop floor
settling on his back.
Is it sadness
or is it hope you feel
watching a paper boat
twist along a river dark?
