That Year


I fell through the year
like your sister
falling out of a tree
through an old photograph.

My hands got lost
folding dough, lost

in letters. That year, I went into
the fields, and made a bed

from chickweed and dried
chicory. I played dead

for the crickets and chiggers,
but I cheated, checking
my pulse, checking

my breath with a mirror.
In the city I held the doors
of different
stores open for strangers.

For too long, too longingly,
until they each took
the door from me

and closed it,
and then opened it
for themselves.





Rocket

Sad planet. Broken rocket.
One by one I count
the cracked moons
and star-birds, I count
my own meteoric tears
tearing into the crust.
Look. This is my tractor-beam
smile. This is my firm
but engaging handshake
with giant space-glove.
This is my love-letter
amid galactic debris. Now
when I gaze into
the hard plastic shield
of your helmet, I see
the hard plastic shield
of mine. By the way,
we’re stuck here
for as long
as forever lasts. Check
1 if you think
this is a good thing.
Check 2 if you think
this is a good thing.
Nights I spend alone
in a crater, a.k.a. the Sea
of Boredom, a.k.a.
The Basin of Fitful
Dreams. Don’t worry.
Help is coming, it wouldn’t
be help if it weren’t
coming. See. Those
are space-bats.
They never get cold.
They eat dehydrated
ice cream right
out of your hand.
Put something, anything
in your hand, rocks,
batteries, your heart,
and they will eat it.
But if you try to hold on
to them, they’ll spit
on your moon-boots,
they’ll chew the knobs
off your oxygen tanks.
Besides, they’re don’t want
your love. They’re just
trying to survive.