Poetry

So we were watching

a documentary on cows standing

not in fields of green grass

like we saw Upstate, but

He took my hand

that grey day

dark, muscled

trees emptied of birds.

Of all the indiscreet behaviors
that colored my college years,
my deep drags of yellow highlighter
those zebra stripes I painted across textbook pages
may be my most peculiar disgrace.

Cop held in killing of mute with rake
How was I to know the suspect could not hear me
shout, “Drop your weapon to the ground!”
as he continued to muster the dead leaves
which had accumulated since August?

A city boy, I was used to potholes
filled with rainwater. But this was Durham

New Hampshire. A single crow
splashed like a kid in a plastic

because it’s close now
under her thrust pale skin,
catching every stranger’s eye
before they refocus
and rush to greet us
passing in the street

The thin wisp of warmth
evaporates after a moment,
gone until a small breath

catches you in whatever place

One day you may veer your van or perhaps

the spiffy family sedan off the 422 freeway

driving home by the back way, past the Corinthian

Yacht Club, where guests palmed their cognacs

when you and I stripped and dove underneath

the dock by the tackle and gift shop.

From where I am I can hear it all—

I hear the table aching, bemoaning

they drag the

sky blue plastic pool

into the street

scraping gravel and laughing,