The Graveyard’s in the Backyard, Where the Meadow Used to Be

Last night when I was young I saw a man looking at me.

Sometime before the blue dark oceans rose
our mouths hushed by water when we tried to speak.

I saw weeds accumulating in the backyard
and never thought to do anything.

Last night before I helped that man with a flat tire

I never thought to question.

I only gave him a bunch of money and no,
he didn’t have a gun.

Lucky, I guess.

Sometime, anytime, before blowing crack smoke
onto a crack-head’s dick.

When all the men in the world were looking at me.

When I’d feign shyness and lower my eyes coyly.

There’s another look too

that came later.

A locking gaze
pouted lips and all.

A lover, The Lover. Perhaps

where passion became Passion.

Shade, willow tree, a place to hide, hands grabbing
all hot afternoon.

How the sun never let up, never moved,
the way the sun never moves. We could learn

to imitate science, couldn’t we?

A peaceful dog asleep on my feet,
his sigh rises and falls beneath his chest.

We could learn
how to build bridges that last forever


glassworks magazine | 2014