Lemon

As you speak the light washes
across your face,

diffuses at your shoulders

and your hands, I’m sure,

are reaching toward me. 

But I start to shrink;

I have shoes that are heavy

and the tinge of acid

from the lemon in my mouth

from the glazed blue bowl

It shimmers, too.

What I Imagine

When words aren’t difficult to invent

and your sleeve grazes my arm

we feed cookies to the dog.

Hair matted from sleep,

the fountain burbles and I think

we’ve found water, it’s going to save everything.

Light cuts through the grass. 

With Nothing

I am a poet that starts with nothing

I sit on a swing without a tree

Hope words will brew with the coffee

Or pour from the air conditioner

Or something perfect will invent itself

So my nothing words become