whether or not

Every morning

theres’s a woman

pruning bush, or

a bush pruning

woman, whether or not

either is real to me

it’s real to her,

that rose bush

pruned, green grass

now rising wet

in the morning dew

of chimney’s now

smoking, standing

in line at the DMV

with the DUI

unpaid, scratching lotto

old men lifting hats

scratching heads,

wondering like children

where all that hair

goes when it falls out

and if there’ll be

enough water

for the grass, in

the coming July drought,

no matter, still

does the woman prune

as the old me croon—

each mourning.

a rose petal pair

secrets untangled

the lengths of her hair

sun bathed and dreaming

a rose petal pair

hysterical heavens

we laughed at all fear

what good is a martyr

or death or despair

Juliet

She was warm and aware

Her bright eyes full of care

By the moon she was fair

as light danced through her hair

Like a sound, Juliet

she spoke wise with regret

Where I found it quite strange

by the light steady rain

Where footprints should have been

she had gone with the wind

While I lay awoken

by the rays of her infinite light

What are you going to do?

I never really know what to do

I just get up and wing it

I’ve been winging it since

I was a little kid, when

I’d tie my hair in knots, pull it out and

I’d tuck it in the couch where no one could see

I wasn’t fooling anybody but

I’ve gotten here so

I think I’ll go a little longer while

I sit here pulling at my beard

I count one hair, two hair, three, no more.

alone, reading quietly

I saw you today,

behind the page of a book you sat

hair tied back in a tight pony,

legs crossed in black leggings

corderoy red dress and bomber jacket.

But I knew better than to say hello.

We’ve been there before, and you

looked like you were doing just fine

sitting alone, reading quietly

commuting to work

or whatever it is you do now.