treetops like fingers,
interlaced, their hands above
play peekaboo—
revealing the wishy-washy
blue/haze,
the kind that writes of calendarless days,

and endless summer.

spitting up
blue afternoon,
microwave heat, in
soft city,
soft suburbia,
i’m far from you.

-

walk
the river, the park,
count the dogs that bark.
memorized every house,
every pooch—
every meaning of you,
and i conclude—

there’s no loneliness
that could take this away from me.

-

so why, instead of the serene,
can I only think of all the people
that want nothing more to do with me.