There is a rhythm to the killing
of lantern flies, let me teach you:
simply shift your step so the
winged thing rests along your
concrete path, and listen not for
its tiny breaths as your shadow
bathes it, when it flees, marvel
not at the lustrous red of its
futile, final flight, hesitate not
to step where it lands, too tired
to run without resting, ponder
not whether time or God or
the universe will witness
your own crushing this way.

Eternity is a pretty notion, a
promise sung, in a round, over
the weeping of orphans, and
oh, I yearn to believe it, I
long for the cinema of
abundant reunion, love as the
circle to conquer time’s lines, but
lovely ideas are flower petals
pressed into the open wound, I
crack the texts, practice the
forbidden magic of bringing back
mothers, and my mouth chokes
on carnations, roses, baby’s breath.

Every mother is a sunflower,
stretching her face to the sky in the
unkept edge of an abandoned lot,
lovely, she, and remarkable,
her reach, the way everyone
will insist they see her silhouette
in the sunsets after, and
through the indigo night, she
becomes another chorus sung, a
promise, among the huddled
remainder.

On the street, in a crowd, I
carve on through like a surgeon,
my hand behind me, open in
the knowing wait, we
make our way, make our day,
some stretch of green, some
small shared delight, our secret,
kiss you in blue raspberries,
you had to be there, someone says,
the way eyes roll in the
unfettered sincerity of cinema,
and I shrug, we were.

All my love stories
turned out to be war stories,
let the boys graffiti their
names in bruises across
my collarbone, love so
visceral in its violences,
planted my feet in the
hurricanes and fought like
Hell to bloom, sang of some
world without turbulence, of
the grisly majesty of trying
to build alongside knuckles
raised to smash and
run free, indigo sonnet to the
man they left, breathless
in the crushed-violet after.

But you, my enthusiast, my
stretch of meadow in some
bustling cityscape, flowers
on the table, for a Sunday, for
the sake of magenta, you
steady my steps, whisper
amidst the whip of winds, offer
shelter in lieu of some test, oh, I
exhale, without thinking, each time
you enter the frame, love you,
uncomplicated, sturdy, the way I
love the sun as it kisses my face
just another good morning.

Here and now we are children,
of mice and monorails, eyes wide
at the castle gates, first sighting this
street from my father’s shoulders, I
walk you to Tomorrowland to
so many stories of Yesterday, and
hurt is a wave rinsing over,
consider the way Grandma
loved It’s a Small World, study
all the drowned pennies and
pretend one was ours, time
nothing but a skein of silk
billowing on, and here lands
the overlap, I am a boy
chaperoned by a man learned
in the dual carrying of
griefs and hopes, and
salt carves rivers down my jaw.

We press our palms into place
and imbue it with magic, the
scrape of a city in the dusk of
my twenties, the moonlit beach
where a porn star confessed
to me he feels his grandfather
standing naked amongst the
waves, the park of artifice,
the orange-countered diner
with the remarkable eggs,
this is our place, we insist,
stamp our names in ink we
were promised is permanent,
but, hush, we know better,
say nothing.

In the winter, my bitter search
for words to give my father
at the golden retriever who
time crumpled in his hands,
only to tell him I know dogs
don’t live forever, but
I hoped he would, and
the record scratched, looping
back for mothers and summers
and every other remarkable,
impermanent magic.

Life’s half the battle, a
whisper from the walls, I
bask alongside time and
all its many iterations,
reassuring, isn’t it, the way
the truth will always echo,
squeeze my eyes shut and
there I am at all the endings –

I am the heaving chest
on a yoga mat, roaring weakly
into the empty apartment, fresh
believer that my world is flat, I
claw at the darkness and wail
for help, pity like a blueberry
pressed into eggshell linen
for the man I hear yelling
his name, and

I am a beer, sun-drenched
on a patio among the red bricks
of a city we share in name only,
reading the news, from my Dad,
swallowing tears and losing the
arm-wrestle to disbelief, every
mom should live forever, I
yearn to thrash and break, tear
the sky like an old towel,
demand better, demand more.

My sister rolls her eyes, but
I insist that she promise – if
we ever fight, leave wounds
unanswered, and I am
crushed by the piano, dangling
ever overhead – she will
remember, with more pages,
we’d have closed the braid,
finished the melody, brought
those chords right on home,
there’s always more, always.

A lover leaves bruises and
eleven years later calls to
ask what it all meant, the
turntable continues, needle
waiting, but we remember
the way it goes, there’s
more story, always, more
to be said, yelled, whispered,
and – sometimes – sifted
from the stillness of the echoes.

Well, me oh my, I
borrow my days like
some well-loved guitar,
the acoustic strum and
how it rescues the room,
tie a new string for every
year, all its glories and
scars, close my eyes
and hum, lips pressed
in a smile, or a secret,
every chorus brings me
closer to myself –

I line up my polaroids,
try to trace the threads
of time, pause to listen,
does melancholy sing
somewhere in the eaves
of my being? But, ah,
I shrug and grin, musing
at the idea of all these
selves sharing a room, how
glad they’d all be to hold,
in their palms, the promise
of so much becoming,
a one-man relay, I
am a thousand poems
in a constant color,
golden orange and
spilling warmly into
the room.

Nostalgia is a papercut
until we learn to
visit those pages
without trying to stay, I
love those yesterdays,
but, my God, the sun
just broke through
before the rain even
knew to stop, and
my fingertips will devote
hours trying to write
this moment into some
slapdash permanence,
already gone and
giving way, flight
and the lovely return.

Strange, the way
memory rakes across my sands,
a moon has its mysticisms, rolls
right in then slips away, and
there you are on my shore,
visceral, vivid, I –

Can’t quite explain my nostalgia
for those days, your prep cook
chapter in Chinatown, guess I
remembered to forget it ’til now,
shelling clams, shoestring
wrapped around the cover of
your knife in your bag, on
some train, the sweat
on your brow, and
TV on my couch, the
scratching of legs, make
a joke and then turn
to find you sleeping.

Tell you the truth, I have
kept my mind on a short leash,
never to dwell among
rose petals, gentle mornings, the
very moments, tender, hopeful,
that kept me treading water in your
orbit, easier to document the lessons
spelled in scar tissue, but
time is saltwater, eroding
the sharp edges and, by
benefit of the blur, I
weigh in my hands the
hope you take pride
in those days, the spark
of magic, your hands to
the plate.

When a wave departs, the
shells lay bare, jagged mosaic;
among them, the living rise
to tunnel from view, safe
from the seagulls and the
hands of children, reckless
and wild, ’til the hour
grows late or game goes
idle, our nod to carry our
things on home.

Gay boy, you are beautiful, right
here in the gold-sheen wash, this
very moment, you break into laughter
and what an honor, seeing you, here,
all those years you lived like a
ship in a bottle, held your breath
then squeezed your way through
that narrow neck, heartbeat in
your throat as you stammered
the truth, just to feel what it is
to breathe the honest air, and
what a gift, what a love letter –

By the pool, your fingertips fidget
at your shirtline, eyes scan the
scene for smoke to signal danger,
just another place you don’t belong,
but, in silence, you breathe like
a chorus rehearsed, and then
you pull free, only this way can
your shoulders know sun, let
freedom rinse, we are here and
in our palms we carry beauty
we won’t quite see until
time slows our bodies, right
this minute, prescient, urgent,
lovely, ours, you are
beautiful, gay boy, you.

Please don’t forget to be
a little in love with everything
surrounding you this evening, here
for now and only that, weep
for the orange tabby who nests
and revels toward your heartbeat,
ribcaged, but never reveals
the secrets of its singing, paws
pressed, tender, into flesh, sheathing
the sharp, instinctual wild
for this lamplight nap.

You are thirty-six, cradling
three dozen reasons not to
trust the luster of just
any literary notion, but
go on, make poetry of
the mundane miracle of
life and all its unlikelihoods,
can you believe we get to
exist together, you lift your
glass at an Applebee’s, laughter
as everybody’s chaser.

One day, unknowing, you will
go on your final run, that
familiar rise and rhythm and
thunderous bloodstream, so
loop, twist those shoestrings
like a ritual, a prayer, a dance –
the Earth steadily spun
‘neath the needle of your
devoted watch, let the
infatuation hold you, sold,
quiet embarrassment of riches,
everywhere, the cinema pales
in its desperation to capture,
run your hands over everything,
everything right this second.

Adventures in becoming gentler
and gentler, shed those skins
through the pileup of days,
chapters stacked and we revel
in the tender flesh we were
many times cautioned to armor,
press the photo of a man whose
teeth left scar tissue to my
lips then set him free, billowing
in the wake of that wanting,
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, I
traded my dagger for dancing,
morning coffee in lieu of the
vodka soda bloodstained by
cranberry.

Relentless are the barricades
along the parade route, but
breathe with me, I know
the way, when we arrive,
we all kiss, we hug at the
miracle, our arrival, and
the joy is a sun-soaked blur,
every year, we are more us,
you know the stories I will tell
so you sing along to the
best parts, our becoming
akin to an unmasking, we,
the children who hid beneath
the cloaks of stoic gods.

At the train tracks, I
give voice to a pigeon pacing,
well, hello there, he the
wizened admiral, esteemed and
long-stationed, you giggle
along and fall in love with
me today, so my lips
stamp your forehead, we
would have played together
as children, inventing
the adventure, and always,
yes, always becoming.