It rains and I’m thinking of spring, as in, sprung out of water, and there you are.

By | 15 May 2023


How the tree was made blue under the canopy:

in the moon’s air and water, or, painted blue.
There is no shape more tree-like than humans

thinking to shape it. The tree
hollows as bright canoes

spooned out of bark. What is the white-person
equivalent of a tree? It is a tree

so blue even in daylight,
insisting it’s been there all along

We watch a movie on my phone. The headlights
too, dim and dusty, project an old film

on the road, something we hadn’t seen before.
Trees grow blue in the dark. Write me

poetry. Okay. The text balloons in the sky.
Atmosphere keeps our mouths in place

as geese-lake-water sweeps into shape: temple, then prayer.
The bayou around an iron pipe cups a great blue

heron. The wing is ink-smudged.
Fall is a place too. We sit in a cavity

playing a game where we lose all the words in hand
and win. We play a game where we grieve everything
left in the road.


I want you to write me a poem instead. For me
the light in the road, thinned and moving.

I want to be the Michigan sun,
brief but possible. Before the harming and being

harmed. I know there is suffering
in the world, I know it. I know

we don’t go here often, but can I be in the mouth this time?

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