AcadiaThere is a lighthouseMore Like This
In Bar Harbor
With a family
Who live in it.
There is paper
On the windows,
Just the lower half
Because of the tourists
Who telescope their camera lenses
Through the curtains.
There is a sign
"Please keep off the grass"
Because it grows by inches
And dies by feet.
But the children
Of the coast guard parents,
They play in the grass at midnight,
When wanderers cannot catch sunflares
On the white lighthouse with their clicking shutters.
The dark is a hopeful secret
The red light they normally see
From their bedroom windows -
And fishing people see from the sea -
It swings through the night time grass.
It illuminates their faces
A watery pink
As if they are playing at the bottom
Of a filled crystal punchbowl
Like the one their mother covets,
Of the nice family who live down the street.
Avian ReverieEvery little bird is dreaming freedomMore Like This
between night and morning
is the beauty
of pink-footed geese
dark apostrophes in the sky's
pillow streaks of clouds
and the grass
muddy in the mistlight
in the treads of my boots
as I run
my arms in the gap
between day and morning.
I want to knowThere was nothing I loved more than watching him take pictures.More Like This
How his eyes just seemed to glow when he captured the right shot,
a single moment froze in time for him to forever see.
There was always the talk about the right angles
and the uniformity of the balance things had
within their space limit.
He saw beauty where no one else could,
even if he took a picture of stranded debris
he would form a tale without out words,
and that piece of garbage
a thousand others might have stepped all over
suddenly turned into something lovely,
and the snapshot seemed
like a whole different universe than ours.
No one saw the world as he did.
One DayOne morning, it won't be me alone in my bed. It won't even be my bed, in my parent's house, the house I've lived in for 16 years. It will be our bed, with the sheets he picked out and the apartment close to my work, near the city, because I'm restless and he doesn't mind.More Like This
"The great thing about the city," he will frequently say as he ties his sneakers up at the front door, "Is that there's always some place new."
Though by this time our neighborhood is familiar and we know every shortcut to get there. We've had take out from every place within a fifteen minute walk and scoured for bookstores we can walk to easily on a lazy Sunday morning. We will own a dog or two and they will always sleep at our feet and spy on us during sex. The couches will forever be covered in dog hair and I will always complain about picking up their poop.
One afternoon, it won't be me making lunch for myself. I'll be making lunch for him and our friends as we scream and gasp to bad sci-fi horror movies for the a