1
Darling hours,
2007 and fresh snow covers
the driveways and pastures
along 95th street, a place for gliding
beneath skies of former blizzards, the entrails
of winter giants still steam on the horizon,
I have not forgotten them.
Maria and I, we lions
our manes fly and I
run and I run and I run
Maria, my Delilah
she cuts my hair for the prom
as we dance on former paws
until my bones are rain worn
and my house sits on my shoulders
like a child.
Maria, my Toru
she sees the wreath of tree hinges
and well-stones I hang in my room
she keeps the widow’s walk
as I wander fractals of bear fur, bong hits,
alternate moons, and Midwest downtowns
in brittle and wicked knots.
2
Maria and I leave the car windows open
when it rains. We kiss in aisles of corn that curve off
like mountain roads.
3
I never see Maria anymore, my shadow cruelly wired
to my feet by a half-dreamt surgery.
Maria holds a tin can to her ear
and I hold another to my mouth
they are connected 5500 miles by a lion’s whisker
and I don’t know where I got these dreams
of magpies and thieves.
4
Now Maria sits in every spoonful of coffee
every blanket fold and bed spring. I hate the comfortable
solitude of my apartment, the radiant darkness
of Midwest dawns that pour me like whiskey
into dying summer days. I bought a ring
a long time ago, hid it in a fever dream
where I changed my name to wanderer.
I say I do
to an empty sky
so the moon is my wife
and everywhere I look
Maria unfolds as golden blue
Christmas flowers.