treetops like fingers
interlaced, the hands above
playing peekaboo—
revealing 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 a ways from you.

-

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

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

done.

-

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