Maps

Maps make distances a finger-point away

I am my thumb and you lie at the tip of my index finger

There are lines and signs and arrows

intersections and one-ways between us

Never mind the creases

or the coffee cup stains,

the pin prick marks of places we've been

the strings that form a constellation

the weathered paper, textured from its pocketed travel

it is only when i don't see it

it is only when its folded

where i feel we are closer than two finger distances

lines blur and burn in light

as we become one in two places

at a single moment

hug and blindly tuck

in a leather wallet.

6.55 PM

June 7, 2012

Deplaning

Deplaning is  a complex thing

there are seat belts to be worried about

and postures and tray tables

the glaring light from a dizzying

view of the sky outside

the shake and sound of being

suddenly jolted up and down the ground

your stomach  between your ears

and your throat is a puddle 

begging to be hurled in a bag

incessant blinking and beeping

and some voice announcing minutes

left before you're arrival.

Overhead bins silently tuck away baggages

with no complaints, hidden seamlessly

to appear to be part of a well-designed ceiling

pretending that gravity will grow tired

of looking for them.

Somewhere between land and air

is pressure, a hum that cannot be numbed.

We breathe, and pop and yawn our way out of

it, as if it can be reasoned to stay away.

We are given guides to read,

warnings to safety, manuals to exit

only to find ourselves relentlessly falling

There are far more criminal offenses 

than bringing a life vest home

Sept 18 2011

Shards of Light

In a morning car, driving through

shutters of trees and the light

moved with the song in my head

as if in hide and seek

peeking and poking in rhythm

and i can't help but face the sun

like a pillow of light

embracing my lungs

and each breath felt like

fluttering wings

against my rib cages

letting smile out like

a flock of birds on its

first taste of sky

Folded Napkins

There are skies that fold into napkins

stack under heavy porcelain plates.

Waiting for stars to beat their chest

and clouds to stammer help

Orange Wedges

There is a certain art in breaking

a wedge of orange,

the sudden burst of citrus

the smell, individual pulps 

break their embryonic embrace

as they fan out in clusters

letting seeds fall

Upturned towards the sky

as in an arch, spine curved

like being lifted from a longtime 

of being curled tight in a ball

of dewy leather