The Weekly Commuter

We let the day balm,
unhem warm rains,
in the watery light,
wander to the sink.

Flavoring your hair
with cola oil, I encounter
missed scents
behind your left ear,
writ-small, years-full of young will.

Through the wall, a new song
on the radio—We are difficult to catch,
but real. We are lizards on the windowsill.

We weigh heavy names
for light things
in our brains, smooth as fish
in a wash, slip finger deep
into cream pots—We are difficult to catch,
but real. We are lizards on the windowsill.
You’re a new song on the radio.
I’m letting the upstairs bath overflow.

The glowworm warmed
to what she wrapped around,
somehow home,
though alone.

As blackness robed
her grove, and the salt
of stars through leaves
shone—suddenly, she felt
the night her own. Naturally,
she glowed.

The mild-hearted moon
appears earlier
these days, so close
and low in the sky.

Though just ahead, our moon
seems to see us home —
through the gloaming,
over the bridge,
into the eager night.

“God will do the right thing on election day,” Sarah Palin said.

God did do the right thing on election day. He stepped aside and let the American people vote.

And so goodbye.

Goodbye to the Palinistas and the McCainiacs.

Goodbye to Joe the Plumber and Tito the Builder.

Goodbye to “There is no God!” and Letter to America 2012.

Goodbye to the difference between a pitbull and a hockey mom.

Goodbye to sex on skates and having your six-year-old daughter carry your baby wherever you go.

Goodbye to getting a candidate’s religion wrong and purposefully using his middle name when mentioning him.

Goodbye to pandering to the female vote by choosing as your running mate a woman so obviously and completely unqualified for the office in question.

Goodbye to pandering to the hardcore Christian vote.

Goodbye to stormy waters, rough seas, ships drifting, wolves running through a forest at night, polar bears picked off from the heights of a helicopter, “Drill, baby, drill,” American-flag bikinis, drinking buddies, $150,000 spent on a new wardrobe, “Drill here, drill now, pay less,” the proximity of Alaska to Russia, forced teenage marriage for the sake of political appearances, skinning a moose, talk of socialism, “the pro-America parts of the country,” the abuse of the word patriotism, fear of something–someone–different, reliance on the old ways, misunderstimating the electorate, the voters, Americans; elitism masked as conservatism, arrogance, a one-sided view of the world, belief that this party will always triumph.

It has not triumphed, and America is already the better for it.

A softening of syllables,
a bright blur
on the vegetables,
the humidity we listen in
perceptible, and the sky behind
dip-dyes to blue.

Concrete made a city
of our scenery, but the morning
is yielding, otherworldly,
and the distance, however real, thins
to see-through, interrupted
by the air between.

The cut edge of a cloud
stands out
against its backdrop
of atomized blue.

Until the bell rolls
on its greased axle,
the morning’s music
is not mechanical.

Even with the windows down,
car rides try us
when they’re not to home.

All along the bridge,
we hold our breath
but the middle and the end hurt
so we miss the open sea stretch,
every passenger’s due.

Born along on undercurrents,
flush with jellies, errant nets,
and plastic bits—we merge
in an earth-scale eddy,
gradually, oceanly.

Deep saltwater swimming,
we express sweatiness
with difficulty, distracted
by bioluminescence
and the rare
burning in our chests—where air
once went, we remember. Long since,
we let the tides take us.

“The day will come–and it is not far off–when the legacy of Lincoln will finally be fulfilled at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue when a black man or woman will sit in the Oval Office. When that day comes, the most remarkable thing about it will be how naturally it occurs.”

– George H.W. Bush, 1990

Step out from the shade
and the day’s an empty street,
an entire town asleep
in deference
to the white-walled heat.

We’ll wait, with the cork oak
for company, its toothed leaves
no longer green, but fragrant
as the winding road
up to the winery.

Slack as cats drowsing,
unconscious as the sea,
we’ll soften into the base
of this tree,
our tree, so long
as we delay.

We tamp the lawn
in soft-sole moccasins.
Bee bones
crush quietly.

Too many thirsty bees
sweep our lawn
for sips – low-flyer, insect fire
putter-outer, you wet powder
strung together, you small sting
in hand.