Opaque
It’s opaque, secretive
to no purpose, circular
rather than linear,
a road that comes back
to itself as if that
were enough to keep our
attention, the first person
subjective, story of you
as told by you who can’t
stop free-associating
words that stand for emotions
you can’t bear to lay bare,
cop-out extraordinaire.
* * *
Pulse
I put my hand on your wrist
not only to feel your skin
but to feel the blood below,
racing from heart to fingertip
and back, another lap
of the city of you.
Pulse of the city, pulse
of your state, pulse
of the nation contained
in your veins, vines
that grow grapes whose
wine we press tonight:
licorice, mineral, berries.
* * *
Quake
Seismic disturbances
disturb us, size us
up for future reactions
to movements of earth.
Inhalations of breath
mean life is still here,
dodgy as it is on Mars
where we all belong, red
dirt space cowboys on fire,
liars who never leave home
for store or space station,
impatient to carry on
with our sci-fi lives,
the hives of bees we keep
for times like these, buzzing
like those who caused them.